Flight
by AnnabeeLee
Summary: Fantasy AU. Winged!Sherlock Three years later, and neither John nor Sherlock can quite give up on the other. With Moriarty mobilizing once again, Sherlock is forced back into John's life, leading them both down a dangerous path as they race to solve a series of life-threatening puzzles left by the criminal. Part two of the Nesting!verse.
1. Prologue

**Title**: Flight  
**Rating:** M  
**Genre:** Fantasy/Romance  
**Plot:** Three years later, and neither John nor Sherlock can quite give up on the other. With Moriarty mobilizing once again, Sherlock is forced back into John's life, leading them both down a dangerous path as they race to solve a series of life-threatening puzzles left by the criminal. Part two in the Nesting!verse. I highly recommend to read part one, Clipped, for terms, concepts, and backstory to clear up confusion.  
**Warnings:** High Fantasy AU. Winged!Sherlock. Violence and later sexual situations. Also, there will be after chapter notes for concepts or words that need clearing, (from what I found with the last story, notes clearly need to be put in the warnings section).  
**Author's Note:** I couldn't last long without writing this, plus the overwhelming response from the first part was beautiful and unexpected. So here we are again!

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**Prologue**

_Where they were, he knew not. The gentle teasing fingers of a breeze and the vague outline of a background held little dominance over the two of them together, moving easily, desperately. The absence, the time spent being apart had never happened, didn't matter. All that was between them was just as it should be, close with hands touching skin and mouths seeking refuge with each other. Which was the real world and which the dream? Surely this was the former, a more peaceful setting than the whirlwind of the nightmare that came before. _

_ A moment dragged into several as they held one another, closely, intimately. The background faded in favor of a fervor unknown before, climax approaching as a name called out into the dark of it all-_

"Sherlock…" John woke with a strangled gasp, sweat cooling along his brow and neck as he searched frantically around the room to regain his setting. It was dark, not even sunsrise, the quiet cooing of a para could be heard through the open window of his bedroom. He was at home, in bed next to his wife, still panting as his body twitched from his sudden shock. Wiping a hand across his forehead, he sat up fully, putting his face in his palm while rubbing the bridge of his nose, body shaking.

What had caused that? Why now? His dreams had been free of the other man for over an annual, ever since getting knotted to Mary, and yet here, almost three after the sudden flight of Sherlock from Trias. The man was a realm away, so why had he so vividly been with him in his sleep. To what purpose did it serve other than drudging up confusing and rampant emotions he had since buried beneath his commitment to the woman at his side? John stared hard outside the window at the hard brick building as a small bird flew by, though neither of these things held any answers for him.

Unconsciously, he pressed a hand to Mary's abdomen, looking over as he felt the firm flesh of her rounded stomach. A fondness came over him, allowing John to push back the ache left from Sherlock's presence in his subconscious. He was going to be a father in less than two months times, he and Mary to raise a child finally. Nothing could've been more perfect with the beautiful woman slumbering next to him, carrying his offspring. With the boom in patients, and the officials finally pulling back from their looming watch, his life was turning into something he could be comfortable and successful with.

Yet Sherlock still held his grasp upon his heart, their time apart doing little to dull the want and need he felt for the man. His bitterness and sadness a washed him as he lay back down, curling into Mary's side, hand still placed upon her swollen middle. He loved her dearly and he could find comfort in her to fill the void from where Sherlock had left. Before drifting off again, he could quietly hope, in a moment of weakness, that the man dreamt of him, or even still cared for him at all.

* * *

One realm over, Sherlock awoke with a sudden shout, toppling a stack of precariously placed books onto the wooden floor with a series of dull thunks. He blinked rapidly in the dull early morning light, easily garnering his surroundings as his mind whirred from his dream. His home, the small flat placed just outside of Perishin, at the table was where he currently sat, regulating his breathing in order to bring his heart rate back to average. He must've dozed off, scouring over the books to find the key to his current predicament, as he had not slept a single minute within the last three dailies(1).

Closing the directory on indigenous tribes in the realm of Douich, Sherlock stood to his weak legs, wings pumping sleepily behind him as he stepped carefully to the balcony, grunting when one of his prosthetics clipped the doorframe. The solars had given his body time to adjust and seamlessly accept the metallic replacements, giving them flexibility, a few nerve endings, and even a scant amount of tiny down feathers had begun to poke out of the surfaces. Each molt changed their color to blend in with his real plumage, something that should brighten his outlook on the prosthetics, yet it only served to remind him of why they were there in the first place.

He could've done things differently. It would've been difficult to stay in Guier and find John a way through, but it was highly possible, if not illegal and most likely extremely expensive. He had been stupid though, spurred by the official letter to vacate the world for his own and leave John to recover from their bond enough to seek out a new life, a better life, one where his tyrannical government was not breathing down his neck for offspring to fuel their dying species. Sherlock regretted his rash decision every moment he could spare to think about it, yet the detective work kept his mind busy, though the times in-between cases were brutal. He had found ways to cope however, with the marks in the crook of his elbow a blaring testament to his new habit. His biology would normally heal them quickly and efficiently, but after so many uses even one's nature tends to give up on the task.

The sun was just rising over the port side city, illuminating the tree top flats embracing the stone buildings that made the core of his home. The smooth surfaces blinked mockingly at him, added to by the lazy waves of the ocean in the distance, and with a dismissive sound, Sherlock turned back into his meager flat, wings wrapping around him protectively as he padded along the cool floor back to his table. Now was not the time to reminisce over kerlaily lost. Today, he was to catch a thief in the basement of a small bakery on the west-side of town promptly at high-noon. After, he was expected at the local mortuary to determine the cause of death for a strange animal. John should be the farthest thing off his mind. The thought of him before had brought a calming sort of effect, but now only drudged up a remembrance of Sherlock's own failing.

Comfort came now in the adrenaline rush of the case and in the simplistic injection of an accelerant. As he settled back into his chair, he allowed himself to wonder briefly if John still dreamt of him, or if his new life had erased any subconscious want for Sherlock. He quickly dismissed the thought as a lost cause, throwing himself back into the old tomes.

* * *

A little review for terms. Knotting is the metal workers term for marriage. Kerlaily is the Exemian term for a long-lasting romantic, intimate bond.

1- Exemian time is broken down into three basic components: dailies(days), lunars(months) and solars(years).

This takes place a few days before Sherlock's letter to John, just to clear up any confusion. I'll be back in a week with the first chapter. If you have any questions, or would like to know more about anything, please ask either here, or on my tumblr,(the link given on my profile). Reviews are awesome, and thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Just to say, the whole story will change from whom the third person is following, between John and Sherlock. If this bother's you, then you can pick a person, read only their parts and get a rather jumbled tale. Also, notes at the end will mostly be for review or fun facts. Some are completely necessary however. Anyways, thanks for all the wonderful reviews on the prologue and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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**Chapter 1:**** The Wooden Box and the Copper Tin**

Leaves rustled overhead as the cool afternoon breeze fluttered around the port side city of Perishin, the sun beating down on its calm expanse. Ships sailed into the docks so carefully while their sailors shouted and directed the movement and the workers below hauled packages and crates for boarding. Busy tourists and hurried workers of all sorts meandered through the grassy streets, passing each stone building in the warm summer day. A few pack animals trudged up the paths, hauling theirs drivers and whatever goods were laden upon their strong backs as the merchants called out prices to the public, brandishing their wears in hopes of luring the needy customer. Life in the second largest city in Exemia was such, and Sherlock hated almost every predictable minute.

Yet here, in the small mortuary, he could escape for a moment, though his current subject was less than comforting. Last night, a small group had brought in a monster, sliced cleanly in half while they were traveling from the east. Now, the Shade lay before Sherlock, who had been kindly asked to determine the origin of the creature's brutal demise. No one felt a drop of sympathy for it, but if its death could be linked, a weapon might be found that was effective against the ravenous species.

It sneered at him, even in death, yellowed grimy fangs peeking out from its black maw as white eyes stared unseeingly around the room. Sherlock could push back the quaking fear of it while he maneuvered around the examining table, peering curiously at the clean, precise wound. He would have to take a sample of the tissue around the cut, check it for any foreign substances but he had a sure hypothesis already forming in his head.

Taking his sample, he headed to the other side of the lab, his excitement from earlier waning as the answer became clearer and clearer. As he examined the grey flesh, the door to the mortuary opened with a bang, though he gave it little notice until someone began shouting in his ear.

"You went off on your own again, Holmes! This is the third time this lunar. I would sack you if it weren't for your damn anwei(1) breathing down our necks." Coincidentally, it was Dimmock who was breathing down his neck as he peered curiously into the microscope. He would be easy to ignore if it weren't for the stench of his lackeys, Anderson and Donovon disrupting any chance of concentration. It seemed Anderson had skipped out on his family again last night, instead opting for the rather desperate Donovon. What an ordinary turn of events.

"I've solved forty percent of your 'dead' cases in the last three solars, never failed to catch a criminal, and I've saved the whole department from going into the negative from falsely accusing the innocent, and yet you still won't allow me to do things my way." Tomorrow, he would have to speak to the travelers who came across the Shade. If he was right, which he was, then this had turned out to be a most disappointing little mystery.

"We have codes and rules." He turned to Dimmock then, glaring at the Marvolo.

"Surprising how they aren't working." He sneered after a moment, grabbing his coat from the back of the laboratory chair, though his oddly short superior tried to block his path. "Besides, if Donovan and Anderson can wrap up a case without my help, then it isn't worth my time."

"If your anwei…"

"Oh please. You need me, Dimmock. My anwei's political status has nothing to do with my still being under your thumb." Sherlock pressed past his superior, calling back over his shoulder as he exited, "If something interesting comes up, you know where to find me."

He floated easily above the crowds, in no real hurry to return to his humble abode and spend the next week or so holed up with Reginald and his needle. The breeze was in his favor this afternoon, surprising for this time of year, yet easily linked to the amount of Anhelans whipping about excitedly, eager to drink in the festivities. Below him, people moved lethargically along, most of them foreigners, either to this continent or to this realm, it made no difference. It was the one time every five solars nearly every Exemian off-realm came home, to pander in the widened pathways to Zwaloricalt(2), enjoying the excess of energy and the festivities that marked the phenomenon.

It was an exciting time, even for Sherlock. With the increase in tourists, there was a positive curve towards crime, and with so many different cultures mashing together, the illegal actions took a rather creative turn. If he had been a different man, he might've prayed for something more distracting than a thief with an uncanny ability to disappear into the ground. Along with the increased possibility of distraction came the boost he needed in order to fully assimilate his prosthetics. While they're half-usefulness had been a marked benefit, with the amount of zwa now buzzing in the air, taking hold of whatever natural being it could, his body would be able to fully integrate the metal into his body. Soon, nerves would be defining themselves more than ever, full feathers sprouting out of the softened metallic surface as layers would begin to form within the structure itself.

Or so he suspected. He had little to go off of, but the hypothesis was that the prosthetics would take one a more limb like quality, making a softer layer of 'skin' over the hard 'bone'. They would be nigh unbreakable, and his body would be able to concentrate on things other than these curiosities. They left him tired, averaging a need for four hours a night when before he had needed merely three. He was still unused to the amount of exhaustion that plagued him so easily now, and he wondered if this was how the metal-workers felt when they began to age so quickly.

Despite his annoyance over his body's inferior performance as of late, these issues gave him something to do, something to work towards and allowing him to bury all thoughts about John in their more important wake. No matter what he tried, he couldn't delete the man from his mind, the doctor having wormed his way inside and occupying such a large section of his thought process. He brought up memories of easiness and companionship, of affections and desires. All the memories were ones Sherlock could lose himself in, but once he was forced back into the bitter reality of their situation, he found himself reaching for his solution once more.

He craved it even now, so soon after a case. It should frighten him, this dependency, yet he could easily lie to himself that it was a coping mechanism, a punishment for allowing him and John to get close when they would have to be forced apart. Everything in him craved their contact, needed to be close again to his kerlaily, but he had to suffer if John was to survive his own world's brutal necessities. Not writing back to John had been a torture all on its own, but if Sherlock was to break their connection enough to allow to seek out a wife, then that's was he had to do.

He kept the letters, all four of them. Sometimes, in his more addled state, his fingers sought the wooden box out, grasping the worn paper, reading and re-reading their short messages for the umpteenth time despite being able to state aloud each word from memory.

He was brought out of his thoughts when an Anhelan, pure bred, blond, and smiling flew up next to him, puffy green wings with blue and purple radiating together throughout, gesturing invitingly even mid-flight. He was little older than Sherlock, hailing from the deep rainforests to the southwest judging by his bright plumage and tanned skin. A storm-watcher, most likely, coming to Perishin to visit family and snatch a kerlaily or boersy(3). His body language suggested he wanted Sherlock to accompany him to the night's festivities. Sherlock's told him to take a nose-dive straight into the nearby ocean. The colorful man flew away with an agitated huff, and Sherlock found himself suddenly eager to leave the busy streets.

Alighting upon his balcony in the treetop flats that encircle the outer rims of Pereshin, it didn't take much to notice the marginally wider gap between the door and the frame than he left this morning, nor the permeating scent of his brother's own underlying pheromones. Another unsurprising attribute to find when walking into his flat was Mycroft with a small fire at his feet, burning away to last of Sherlock's fix in a control smokeless flame. It wasn't the first time it had happened, nor most likely the last.

"Is it that time already?" His brother paid him little mind, putting out the fire with a wave of his hand, leaving little evidence beside a scant amount of ash to be blown away with the evening wind. Every few lunars, he would find Mycroft in his home, having been sent by Mummy to try and fix the youngest Holmes. They would agree that the elder had tried his best, and go their separate ways once more.

"I have a feeling you won't be needing your 'hobby' here shortly." His brother answered, wings relaxed behind him as he leaned on his umbrella. Only when in their home realm did the elder Holmes keep his feathery appendages in full view. In Trias, the metal-workers generally found the sight of them distracting from their tedious lives, something which honestly wouldn't help the ambassador at all in his meddling affairs.

"I assume you are here for more than just the destruction of the last of my distraction." Without a word, his brother produced a smooth shining box from the interior of his coat, holding it out to Sherlock somberly.

"This was given to me by Gre-… Lestrade not three days ago. Found in a small house that was the epicenter of large chain of explosions in the lower district of Guier." He informed as his brother took the container, noting its decent weight. It was handcrafted, silver-colored and of obvious metal-worker influence, it's cool surface chilling his fingers as he felt the pleasant hard exterior. On the lid, his name was engraved in an elegant script, damning him to its possession. The sweet stench of Farish majicks could be found wafting off of the steel, having erased all forms of evidence and even protecting it from the supposed explosion.

Carefully, curiously, Sherlock opened the lid, finding a different array of scents hitting his nose: the tang of rusted iron, the musky heaviness of earth, and even one he hadn't forgotten, forged among the inked letters that sat well-read in a wooden box by his nebwau(4). He dug in, bypassing the parchment to find a small lock of blonde hair, tied carefully in a deep crimson ribbon with a small strip of shed scales, presented in a macabre gift, a taunt. It was too easy to recognize the foreign skin, the that he and John had found in the slavers hideout solars ago.

"You've seen this before." Sherlock said, keeping his hand steady, the sudden urge for his needle now overwhelming as a cold sweat began to trickle down his neck

"Yes. It was the same threat carried out on Desch in order to have you kidnapped." Sherlock offered a non-committal grunt, reluctantly replacing the lock of hair into the container, drawing out the neat little piece of parchment, almost a card more than anything. The paper was of Trias origins, though the ink was imported from a mortal realm. Three little words were emblazoned in a bright red, the same hue of the ribbon, across the space of the card.

_Come and play._

"Moriarty." Sherlock said, a tight sort of anger, renewed after so long of searching and waiting, coming to his voice as he closed the lid, card back inside. It was a call, a sneering malicious threat so subtly powerful that he couldn't ignore the message. He walked over to the table, setting the container upon its surface before turning to Mycroft finally. "I'll have to go back."

"It would appear so." They stared at one another for a moment, a long pause where neither quite knew what to say. They had been avoiding this, the possibility of returning to Trias in the search for the elusive criminal, though Mycroft had been doing as much as he could in-between moderating the metal-worker government. Moriarty was proving slippery, cunning, as he should be, and Sherlock had been itching to lead the search for him. With a direct invitation, neither Mycroft nor their Mummy could refuse him.

His wings taut around him, Sherlock clasped his palms before him, pressing his fingers to his lips, a small smile beginning. He would be able to see John again. It would be a terrible, rash idea, but his time in Guier would be short, so why not spend it with the other man, who was invaluable as a partner and a friend?

"I'll need you to deliver a letter before I do."

* * *

The dry air of the evening was welcome change from the strangely late rain of yesterday. With the warm Humming weather, it came as a reminder of the quickly approaching cool weeks ahead for Gueir and the surrounding territories. It was a strange season now, so reminiscent of those annuals ago spent nannying Sherlock into better health as he lazed around the flat. The two Silence's after he had fled back to Exemia had been hard, lonely and bitter spent working or avoiding the public. Last annual's had been easier with Mary by his side, keeping him company and letting his mind stray from what was missing in his life. This Silence would be even better, a child to raise and everything else falling into place around that.

The knock at his study door had John nearly bolting out of his chair as he came blundering back to the present in the otherwise quiet house. There should be no one wandering around, what with Marjorie, their maid, having gone home an hour ago and Mary tucked into bed early that evening. The child, in the late stages of her pregnancy, had drained her of her energy, despite wanting to continue to her work. While away on leave, a substitute had stepped in to teach her class on Universal Astronomy at the local Higher Education, though her correcting eye was still needed on most lessons.

Opening his study door, John found Mycroft Holmes standing behind it, in all of his usual smug pomposity. It took most of the doctor's restraint not too slam the door on the ambassador's face, or push him back out when he waltzed in, uninvited.

"How did you get in?" John snapped while Mycroft collapsed dramatically into his plush desk chair. He didn't share Sherlock's observation powers, but it didn't take much to see the relaxed posture and near constant hint of smile on the other man's lips. Whatever was causing the ambassador's apparent contentment, John rather wanted to find it and strangle it.

"Ah, Dr. Watson. So good to see you too. How is the dear Mary doing?" When John continued to glare at him, Mycroft's face fell slightly before answering. "Did you know your maid stay's after hours to partake in your vast collection of pain relievers? She seemed rather keen on letting me in once I 'discovered' that little fact." In fact John did know. He had caught her not last week pinching a few pills when she had assumed he was knee-deep in his evening paper. Instead of making a fuss, he allowed it to continue, seeing how she had been such a blessing so far with both the housework and helping Mary while he was with his patients.

"What do you want?"

"Ah, straight to the point. I can see you're rather determined to see me leave so I'll make this short." He dug into his coat for a moment, pulling out a small envelope with John's name written in the familiar scrawl across the front. "I came to deliver a letter, as I said I would."

"No." John crossed his arms, shaking his head.

"Come now, don't be childish."

"Three annuals, and now he writes? No, I'm not taking it. Give it back to him, or better yet, burn it." He crossed the room to the door, indicating for Mycroft to leave. "Now, if you wouldn't mind…" The ambassador nodded curtly, with a tight smile, before placing the letter on the edge of John's desk, walking over to the doctor.

"I understand you have written him off, but I would highly recommend reading it. It is a matter most urgent." With that, Mycroft left, umbrella swinging by his side while John stared at the envelope from across the room, unsure of what to do with it. Running a hand through his short hair, he decided to leave it for now, beginning the usual nightly routine of getting ready for sleep.

It was only after he had been about to go into his bedroom when he found himself walking past the study once more, pausing in the doorway when he realized that the glass candle on his desk was still lit. Anxiously, he went over, stopping just before the hard wood, staring down at the damning paper before him. For a long while, he merely watched it, arms folded over his chest as the seconds ticked by and a carriage rolled by outside his window along the cracked street.

"Right." He said, licking his lips before rubbing them in an agitated manner. "Right." He had the envelope in hand, fingers gently holding the parchment as if afraid it might burst into flames before he could even read the letter within. It was strange, after so long wishing for a correspondence only to receive one when he was determined to propel Sherlock fully from his mind and desires. The dream, however, from the night before must have shaken him for he was moving without thinking eager for the words within.

Finding himself in his chair, with shaking hands he peeled open the flap and withdrew the paper, though not immediately unfolding the letter to read the words. He wondered what could be written there. An apology? No, Sherlock was too proud for that. A request for some sort of communication in hopes of friendship? That seemed unlikely as well. Maybe it was a letter to brag of a new-found 'bond' or whatever it was that Sherlock had called it though John was swift to put that out of his head, not liking the bitter emotions that welled up at the thought.

Feeling as though he had put off the inevitable long enough, John unfolded the crisp, slightly blue paper to reveal a scant amount of black lines amongst the expansive space.

_John,_

_Situations in Trias have been brought to my attention and a request has been made for my return. I will be finding myself back in Trias in two weeks' time, and I do pray that you can accompany me once more to help track down the source of various crimes across Gueir. I fear Moriarty is at his game once more, and having you by my side would be greatly invaluable._

_I will be seeing you quite soon._

_Sherlock_

He read it twice more before a cacophony of emotions that passed through him were as volatile and fleeting as they were expected. He was coming back. Back to Trias, back to Guier, and back into John's life. Anger, joy, anxiety, fear, and nearly every combination of the rest hit him with a brutal force which ebbed away into a stunning numbness like he hadn't felt since Sherlock first left.

Without thinking, he opened one of the drawers in his desk, pulling out a small dulled metal tin, inputting the number code before it creaked open on rusted hinges. Within were the notes that Sherlock had left whenever he had gone out to explore the vast metal-worker capital and a single black and gold feather laying neatly on top. He gingerly placed the letter among the other items, staring within for a moment longer before closing and replacing the faded coppery tin among the papers and books in the drawer.

Oruik, what was he going to do?

* * *

1- Review! Anwei is the Exemian term for the parent that cares for the child.

2- Zwaloricalt (zwah-lorie-colt) is the lake of zwa (magical energy found solely in Exemia) that most Exemians believe to exist below the surface of the world. No one really knows if this exists, but its morphed into the form of an ancient myth that no one really feels like debunking.

3- Beorsy is a type of mate that's purpose is to merely breed. Together, they form a strong physical and emotional bond, but it is easily broken after a certain amount of time. They separate depending on their race; Some only stay together till the child is weened, others until it is fully raised.

4- Nebwau is your typical Anhelan bed, which greatly resembles a bird's nest.

Well, that's that. Please review, and see you next time!


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's** **Note:** Here we are again. Not much to say, just thanks for the lovely reviews and I hope you enjoy!

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** Chapter 2: Reunions **

Reginald lay growling in a low rumble at a small rodent that Sherlock had released that morning seeing how he no longer needed the creature. The old tek, tired and agitated, warily watched the small curious animal as it hopped slowly around the flat. Sherlock paid neither of them any attention, packing away the last of his necessities since he was leaving near mid-daily for Gueir. Not much was needed; a few compounds and herbs, a reference book or two, and clothes made up the one traveling case leaning near the balcony already. The second, larger and custom made to fit any delicate equipment he felt needed, was currently being gingerly filled.

Another threatening growl, louder than before came from Reginald as the rodent, a kle-kle crawled ever closer. It was a tiny thing really, furry brown body and pink prehensile nose snuffling the wooden floor in a daze cause by the last batch of hallucinogen Sherlock had fed it for his final case in Pereshin. Of course, the rodent's reaction couldn't be applied completely to the problem at hand, and Anderson had played his role resulting in a rather amusing fall into the ocean that Sherlock did not orchestrate in the slightest sense. Neither Dimmock nor Donovon had been as pleased as he was unfortunately.

The death of the Shade had been boring as expected. A quick word with the people who found the corpse revealed its location, and a look into the records had revealed the cause easily. As Sherlock had suspected, the monstrosity had wandered too close to an Outska's flock of cattle, killing off a good number of them before the irritable man had done away with the Shade easily. He had left it to rot to serve as a warning to any other wayward creatures who felt as though his herd was easy prey. Sherlock had informed his clients of this, and had to hold his tongue from reprimanding the group for not figuring out the obvious on their own.

He stuffed a glass phial into the case in annoyance at the memory, casting his mind elsewhere so to not spend the rest of his chore grumbling at the stupidity of his employers. Instead he thought of Moriarty, teasing his with a box and a lock of hair and skin. What was this strange criminal doing? He had power, yet he was toying with Sherlock in this odd manner, and his brother, by extension. Was he bored, tired of his higher position and finding entertainment in Sherlock's life? Surely there were dozens of other Exemians to delve into who could be a large enough threat to him. Even more people in all the realms Moriarty surely had access too. What made him stick out?

He knew the answer, of course. It was easy to relate, being stuck in the monotony of life with everything the same, day in and day out, the boredom reaching an almost unbearable level that the sweet relief of some chaos was more than tempting. Moriarty wasn't hosting these crimes for the power or money, but merely for the havoc it could bring, the thrill of being above the law, and outwitting anyone who tried to bring him down.

Sherlock harbored no disillusion; he had been nearing the edge himself, tired of the tedious nature of his life and he was sure a few more days of it and he would've poisoned the watering supply just to watch his fellows squirm and revel in the ensuing insanity. He had been pulled back, however, by his near brush with death and subsequent 'vacation' into Guier. He had lost himself in the new world and his recovering injuries, in the new information he could take in and his budding relationship with John. Mycroft's meddling had led to another point of interest, solving the cases that no one else could. It had been exhilarating, a rush he hadn't expected and a complete distraction that challenged his mind without harming dozens of people in the process.

He stopped his task for a moment, staring over to Reginald and the rodent, who was sniffing the larger creature's paw tentatively. The tek took a swipe at it, sending the rodent scurrying for the relative safety for the table nearest Sherlock. The more he analyzed this situation, the more his excitement grew at the prospects. Moriarty was offering a new distraction, one he had been waiting these past solars to find. With a small smile, he continued packing.

It didn't take long to finish, and his planning was spot on so by the time he was standing in the doorway to the balcony to leave, the sun was nearing noon. Wings stretching and fluttering, he picked up the travel cases, turning at the sound of jaws snapping questioningly behind him. Reginald still lay prone on the floor, ancient yellow eyes blinking up at Sherlock in the mid-daily sun.

The tek had lived here long before Sherlock, even longer than he had been alive. The species found a tree to roost in, climbing the branches with thick grey claws and blending in with their dull fur. They feasted on the leaves and fruits that the vegetation produced, and protected the neighboring songbirds from any would be predators. When Pereshin was built and the trees where morphed into homes, the teks stayed and the Anhelans learned to live along with their neighbors. Reginald had been an interesting companion for Sherlock; he was quiet, never complained of the noises and smells of the various experiments, and listened intently whenever Sherlock was thinking aloud.

"I shouldn't be gone too long, though while I'm out, keep Mycroft from snooping around." They stared at each other a moment longer, Reginald sneezed, and Sherlock stretched his wings before flitting out of the flat and Pereshin all together.

There was a loud snap as he appeared on the outskirts of the rift belt(1), eyes blinking rapidly when the weight of his body returned to him, nearly knocking him off balance. It was an exhausting task, seeing how he didn't have the talent for it his brother did, but with the time he had to practice, it had come with more and more ease. Still, it took a minute to regain his senses, and he checked to make sure he had all of his necessities, more out of habit than anything.

Around him lay the open field of the rift belt, the smooth rolling blue-green hills were still this afternoon, highlighted by the light of the daily. A few large pack animals roamed a few mounds away, grazing upon the long grasses and baying to one another in their quaking voices. Just before Sherlock lay the huts, smalls woven hutches built around each rift specifically so that the experience of changing from one world to the next was as comfortable and natural as possible. As one opened the straw doors, entering the small alcoves, they would be stepping into the next realm, leaving this one behind.

A few people where scattered about at this time, most preferring to travel at early morning or late evening, leaving Sherlock in relative peace for this easy portion of the journey. He didn't particularly enjoy this task, the offsetting of one's organs that came from changing worlds in such an abrupt manner left his head whirring uncomfortably as it tried to regain a sense of normality. Though this method was much preferred over diving for a rip while Shade's chased in hot pursuit, howling in a sadistic hunger and panting after his corpse. At least this way left him intact.

Mycroft was already near the rift, their anwei's lackey, Anthea, standing at his side with a novel in hand as usual, her tail swaying side to side and ears flickering at the slightest sound. Despite her apparent distraction, she was always listening, taking in any bit of information to belay to Sherlock and Mycroft's anwei whenever asked. It was why Mummy had picked her in the first place, needing this invaluable asset to watch over her home and children when she was otherwise indisposed.

"There you are. Didn't leave anything behind, I hope." Mycroft joked, eyeing his travel cases. The elder Holmes held nothing, seeing how he had already established two residences in both realms and all of his excess was distributed easily between them. Anthea did not look up from her book, though the slight nod in his direction was enough acknowledgement.

"Mummy sent her spy to make sure I'm clean." Sherlock stated, giving his brother a rather bored look. There was no response, though Anthea closed her novel with more flourish than Sherlock honestly thought was necessary and approached the younger Holmes, nose twitching for some unknown scent before tapping a telling finger along various points of his body. Every few taps, she motioned for him to move his coat or sleeve, pulling out a hidden pouch of his distraction with a roll of the eyes and a smirk on her part.

Five pouches later, and Anthea stepped back, tucking the discriminating evidence into her own pockets, most likely to give to Mummy later. The woman was losing her touch, leaving Sherlock with at least three caches still hidden upon his person and one within his travel case. Mycroft seemed pleased with the prospect, waving Anthea a goodbye and she promptly disappeared with a quiet pop, leaving behind only the lightest of footprints in the grass.

"Come along then." Mycroft guided Sherlock across the rolling field silently, neither having much to say to the other. Their relationship since all of the rabble in Trias had become strained at best, with Mycroft still trying to meddle in Sherlock's life, though the younger Holmes allowed some of it. Having a contact who could sway the minds of his 'superiors' came all too handy when he himself couldn't do it. Dimmock had been right, Sherlock relied on his brother's and anwei's help a little too much, but he was steadily on his way of escaping that. As soon as this venture to Gueir was over and Moriarty was safely ensconced in some sort of prison, he would be able to start his out consulting business, free of Dimmock and his ridiculous lackeys.

They came too their destination and the guide, situated next to the hutch marked Trias, checked the brother's passports, nodding and leading the two to the door before stepping back and allowing them leave when they wished. Sherlock took his place, hand placed on the crystal door handle, taking in the unnaturally warm surface that crackled and stung with a whisper of untold energies. Turning the translucent knob, he pulled the door towards him, peering inside to what deceptively appeared to be an unfurnished hovel. With a squint, he could make out the ruins of the Gueir rift belt, the decrepit pillars crawling with vines and grass jutting from under the brick walkways.

Taking in a breath, and closing his eyes, Sherlock stepped through the rift, feeling the sucking pull as he was dragged into another realm.

* * *

The afternoon crowd on the streets of Gueir was lax at this time, a few people walking this way and that leaving John nearly free reign as he strolled through the block. Having ended early with his last patient of the day, he had felt the need to meander a little before catching a carriage home to Mary. She had been feeling ill as of late, though John had not been overly worried. Still, he was eager to get home once he felt his walk had concluded to make sure to be there for her.

He wondered, though the haze of the usual thoughts flowing through his head, when Sherlock would be showing up, if at all. As the days had passed, he had revisited his small tin more frequently, anxiety and excitement welling up in these stolen moments when Mary was busy correcting lectures and his patients had been attended too. He loathed to admit it, but he was impatient for the man's return, if not for their easy companionship and the adventures that would follow suit. He had talked to Mary, told her of his friend's upcoming visit. She had merely smiled, a strange knowing look that he wondered about during some sleepless moments lying next to her, and told him she'd be thrilled to meet him.

"Sherlock, the one from your stories?" During the annual in which loneliness had gripped him, John had written out most of their adventures, omitting a few details of course. Mary had come across these after they had moved in together, using her own wiles to wrestle them from John's protective grasp. She had read them, expressing her delight in their mystery and the exotic characters. "I think it would be wonderful to meet him."

"Well,"

"We should have him over for supper when he arrives." She suggested, with her own determined expression, meaning that there was little use arguing it. With a sly grin, John stepped up next to her, putting an arm around her middle and pulling her close to press a kiss to her temple.

"If that's what you want."

"You wouldn't?" She turned her head and returning John's embrace. "You haven't seen him in three annuals. I would've assumed you'd want him over…"

"No, it's a… great idea." Mary gave a skepitical gaze before John kissed her worry away. "It's a lovely idea. I'll just have to get him over here."

"Oh, I don't think that will be difficult." She had put on that smile again, with a far off look that John had no idea how to decipher. He thought of this now, days later, side-stepping a group struggling to move a sofa into a store. He had been unable to find Greg to speak to about the matter ever since receiving the letter, the bluecoat strangely busy outside of work despite his recent divorce from his wife, though John doubted he was at liberty to know the full details on Moriarty's return. He would just have to wait for Sherlock to arrive and fill him in.

He would have to catch a carriage soon, his jaunt nearing its end and the streets beginning to fill as the usual work day came to prattling close. With this added threat, he disliked being away from home if any sort of criminal activity was stirring up again, especially in the evening. He had seen crimes linked to Moriarty; the murdering woman who flayed her victims necks, the Farish captured and stuffed into cages made easy for transport and selling into the slavery, turning an ordinary physician into something capable of drowning a man on dry land... John could only wonder what else Moriarty, whomever he was, could be capable of.

If he had been paying attention, he might've noticed the sound of quick footsteps aiming at him before an arm slipped between his own and his body. Before he could react and throw the stranger to the cement, he felt lips press to his ear, a familiar voice murmuring into it as he nearly froze.

"I need you to listen very carefully, John." He could almost feel the wings brushing against his shoulders, that familiar musk he had never quite forgotten teasing his senses as his structured, careful living pattern was thrown askew with a simple touch. It was as if he was being thrown back in time and his heart began to beat out a steady fast-paced rhythm.

"When did you get back?" He felt Sherlock smile against his skin, shivering in response.

"Not an hour ago. Now listen. When I say, we need to run for the city center." John opened his mouth to question, yet Sherlock interrupted him. "Not now. On my word…" He stayed silent and they continued to walk, appearing as though two people sharing a private conversation, but soon John became aware of a pair of men following them, cracking knuckles and determined. He prepared himself, straightening as they continued on their path. The city center was three streets away, and at this time, crowded with exhausted workers and lethargic tourists; perfect for losing thugs amidst the chaos.

"Now!" They shot off in that moment, feet pounding along the cement as they fell into an easy pattern. John followed Sherlock as he took a hard left into an alley, zigzagging into the heart of Gueir and it was almost like old times. The burn in his chest was deeper, coming from annuals without proper practice, but the chase was exhilarating all the same, behind Sherlock, watching his coat billow while the thugs shouted from some distance.

They made it to the center, John keeping close as they molded easily into the slick numerous meandering crowds. Sherlock's wings had disappeared somewhere in the chase, assimilating them smoothly now that they were nothing more than participants in the average evening. They went with the flow, hiding for a few minutes before the thugs gave up their search, disappearing down another alley away from them. Sherlock pulled John out of the mass of people, towards the street where he easily hailed a carriage.

The moment the carriage door had closed, they began laughing, the adrenaline catching up with them as they rocked with the rolling movement of abused wheels and worn-out yusei. John sat across from Sherlock, hardly able to breath as the giggles came and came.

"That… was insane." John choked about, wiping tears from his eyes as he began to calm down.

"Not the worst thing we've done mind you." Sherlock replied, grinning happily, and something struck John with that picture. The man sat across from him, smiling, cheeks flushed as he watched John. It was nostalgic, terribly so, and John felt it pull at him, illiciting that same old anger he had felt for so long. He must've made a face, for Sherlock gave a clear expression of confusion. "Something wrong?" The doctor's response was so swift, he barely even registered the pain in his knuckles as his fist connected easily with Sherlock's cheek.

* * *

1- Rift belts are the common term for particular sections where mutiple permanent divides between realms are naturally grouped together. Some worlds have mutiples of these, some don't have any. Exemia has about three, one being near Perishin, while Trias only has two, one near Gueir.

Agh, it's short, but I wanted it to end this way. There is a method to my madness, I think. Back next week with the next installment. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** And the lateness begins. Never ending cycle. While you question my tardy tendencies, I am ever so glad you're still following along. Thank you for the reviews, the alerts and all that jazz, you fantastic people.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Bargaining With the Unknown  
**

Sherlock honestly should've seen the punch coming, but by the time he had taken in the fall of John's mouth and that twitch in his eye, he had already been hit. His cheek stung as he gingerly touched the rapidly bruising skin, grunting when he pulled his fingers away to find a small amount of blood covering the pale tips.

"I deserved that." He stated blandly, after a moment of John staring harshly out the window. The physician nodded, glancing back at him before opening his medical bag with a sigh and pulling out a clean white cloth and some antiseptic cream. He motioned to Sherlock, who leaned closer and John took his cloth and dabbed it neatly against the split in his skin, removing the blood and adding the ointment. Sherlock wondered if John remembered that the cut would never get infected, that it would be healed within the next few hours, yet he held his tongue, enjoying the gentle touch.

It was retribution, forgiveness in a simple touch that he craved for so long. Even his dreams, deluded and hazy at best couldn't ensconce the joy and sorrow he felt at this light caress. Boldly, he placed a hand over John's just as it began to slip away, holding it there to his skin. He closed his eyes with a shaky breath, and for a moment, could delude himself that this was how it could continue to be. John spread his fingers ever so against his cheek, lightly caressing him and Sherlock opened his eyes reluctantly.

John watched him with a painful gaze, a mournful look that spoke more volumes than either could say. He tightened his grip on John's hand, murmuring his name in a broken manner before the fingers slipped carefully, regretfully, through his and the moment passed as quick as it had come. John stared out the carriage window, leaving Sherlock to collect himself after a moment of weakness.

He looked to his friend, companion, now, taking in what he should've seen before. The annuals had been done their work on John, his age beginning to show in his features in a way that made Sherlock's heart clench in a painful manner. Wrinkles had begun to form around his eyes and mouth, hair beginning to gray as the short metal-worker lifespan took its toll on the doctor. It was a frightening fact that Sherlock enjoyed to forget. John was in his prime, and soon would be rolling closer and closer to death. He couldn't imagine it: another three-hundred annuals or more knowing that John had passed with nothing between them ever coming to fruition.

Sherlock had to calm himself, such a draining thought, for it would happen. There would be little he could do to avoid it legally, of course. There were many…many frowned upon ways to extend the lifespan of anyone. All it took was a few simple injections in most cases...

"Where are we going exactly?" John asked after some time, brow furrowed as he watched the streets pass in a familiar pattern.

"Your home. It's on the way and it was more ethical to stop there first."

"On the way to where, exactly?"

"Baker Street, of course. Mrs. Hudson has been paid a rather handsome sum to keep ou- the rooms as they were, in case they would be needed again." John was looking at him curiously now, not exactly amused by this information, yet slightly angry.

"How long have you been planning to come back, exactly?" His voice was straightforward, yet it gave away much in those few words. Sherlock chose to ignore the accusation within it.

"There was always a possibility, though we couldn't predict when." He answered in an off-hand manner. John nodded, going back to the window yet again, as if refusing to look at Sherlock for too long, leaving the rest of the trip in silence.

John's place of residence was a small townhouse, nothing as superfluous as those in the high class of Guier, but a quaint home nonetheless. A worn place, though taken care of, it was squashed between the other residences, a singular building with no outstanding features. John eyed him curiously when he exited the carriage with the doctor, stopping just before him on the street.

"You're coming in then?" He questioned, a suspicious gleam in his eyes. "I was just going to pop in and check in with Mary before heading off with you." Clearly, John was reluctant for him to enter, an underlying guilt permeating from the doctor. He had no no real excuse to keep Sherlock outside, however, and he did need to see the woman who had taken John from his clutches. It wasn't the most logical thing to do, Mary being direct competition, though Sherlock knew how to contain himself enough not to be a complete bastard as John liked to put it.

"It seems pertinent to meet Mary. She's home, correct?" He pushed past John for the solid wooden door, the doctor coming up quick to his side as he pushed the automated knocker. Sherlock had found most metal-worker technology was unnecessary. A regular knocker would serve its purpose just as well, without the risk of coming into disrepair. What could these people do, though? It was almost sad to see such a prosperous nation without any sort of natural energy conversion to help them along. The messenger was one of the few marvels that Sherlock had grown much attachment to, finding it's near instant quality fantastically useful.

"Yes, but-" John was interrupted by the door opening, a young woman of clear lower class descent opened the door. The maid, clearly, by her attire and the grit on her tattered clothes, and a pain-killer addict by the twitchy quality in her limbs, her clouded far away gaze, and how she flinched whenever she came into contact with anything. "Marjorie." John said in greeting.

"Sir." Definitely low class then, her gravelly voice under duress from the near constant fumes of the factory forges. She led them into the sitting room, cheaply furnished, though Sherlock suspected John didn't have enough funds to spend lavishly on such things, what with the knotting and buying the home. They had little time to get before the knocker rang quite suddenly, and the maid returned after a moment's absence.

"A patient of yours is at the door, sir. He says it's urgent." John looked at her, surprised.

"All be a minute, Sherlock" Sherlock waved him off, eyes riveted to one of the two bookshelves in the room. It was laden with volumes on the stars, planets, and the skies above. Old dusty tomes on the placement of galaxies and foreign guides on the heavens of other realms filled the wooden shelves, each lovingly thumbed through, taken care of with gloved hands, clearly cared for. One book drew his attention, a single large case on the stars of Exemia near the middle, written in Common. He reached for it, mind whirring at the possibilities. Informational texts about his world were more preciously guarded than all of the wealth in the realm, yet here was one, sitting in the common room of a metal-worker...

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes." He drew his hand back as if burned, the dainty voice reassigning his attention to the petite blond woman now standing in the sitting room with him. Calm blue eyes assessed his as she hobbled closer, large cumbersome stomach impeding her graceful movements, though even in this state she had mastery over herself, day dress swaying gently with each measured step. He had to keep himself from glaring at the shining knotted band around her right wrist, it's twin firmly wrapped around John's. "Admiring my collection, I see?"

"Mary Morstan. Or would it be Watson now?" He could hear the scathing tone in his voice, though he hardly cared.

"Mary, please. Come sit with me." She indicated the armchair across the sofa as she gingerly sat herself down.

"I prefer to stand."

"Oh I insist. You wouldn't deny a pregnant person the pleasure of keeping you at eye level, would you?" He gave her a long steady gaze before doing as told with some caution. There was something about her, something that kept just slipping from the reaches of his mind as he went to grasp it, that had Sherlock listening. There was a moment of silence where they studied one another before Mary spoke up again. "My, my, look at you. I've read all about you, yet seeing those wings in person is something else."

"I'm sure you've seen plenty of other wings in your days." He accused.

"Why do you say that?" She inquired innocently, toying with a lock of her hair.

"The book, on your shelf. Exemian, not only printed on native papers to the southeast jungles, but also in Common. Not a single book leaves my realm without explicit permission, and yet here you have one."

"What makes you say it wasn't a gift?" She was lying, he could tell, but it wasn't just the book she was covering up for. There was something else, he knew it.

"Unless you're personal friends with the ambassador, which you're not, then you're holding onto illegal contraband from Exemia which was most likely stolen with your own hands. The book isn't more than six annuals old, so it can't have been passed down either."

"The ambassador isn't the only one from your world to grace ours. I'm sure you've got a few references of your own stashed away."

"Not a single informational pamphlet comes through the rift without explicit permission, and here you are with a detailed guide on our star system. I doubt there's a market for such things in the Southern Colonies, so question is, how did you get it through?" He could feel his wings spreading in the heat of their discussion, yet Mary hardly cared.

"So I'm from the south now? Why say that?"

"Please. The accent, your particular shade of eyes, and the forward behavior in courting John. You're hiding something, Professor, and I intend to find out what." Her face fell at his words, molding easily into a serious expression.

"Oh, will you? What is a person without their secrets, Sherlock? John has his, and I do not bother with them. He is of the same mind. Would you like me to pry into his past, Sherlock? Find out what he may have gotten up to before I came along?" There was no teasing in her gaze, no ulterior flirting in her tone which was strange of women in metal-worker society. She was straight forward, eye contact neither wavering nor weakening.

"Are you threatening me? With John?" He couldn't hide the amusement in his voice at this.

"You may see it as such. We are in a bond of sorts and it would be better to have everything in the open. Both sides of things are life-threatening if the wrong person were to be told, from my point of view, so I propose that you and I reach an agreement. You stay out of my secrets, and I stay out of my husbands."

"You're bargaining like you've done this before."

"Changing the subject won't deter my offer."

"You wouldn't put John's life in danger." He said with a slight laugh, though nothing in her posture gave away she was bluffing.

"Of course not, but it's not danger I'm speaking of, Sherlock. Both of our 'secrets' could be devastating, and I want to avoid hurting him. I do love John, but if you force my hand, I must have something to save myself. I will ask again, stay out of my past, and I will stay out of his, and yours, as it so happens. Do we have a deal?" She leaned forward, hand reached out to him, her gaze and arm as steady as any he had ever seen. He had to smile at this. Here, he had expected someone ordinary to capture John's attention, someone who was plain and average. What a refreshing challenge Mary was turning out to be.

He considered it. Mary was an enigma in herself, something tantalizingly interesting just underneath her calm gentle exterior. He wanted to know, truly he did, hating the idea she might have something over him, but bringing John into this brought a new dimension. Mary knew that there was a deeper level to him and her husband, though Sherlock could easily tell she had nothing to base her claims on. She wasn't asking for power, only to be left in peace, and he could easily give her this.

"You have my hand, Mary. Not many metal-workers know how to keep me at bay." Sherlock moved to take her hand, but pulled it back before she could grasp his. "Though, if you do figure out John, then I expect to be allowed to do the same to you."

"Of course, Sherlock. That is more than fair." He took her palm in his, grasping the gloved hand and shaking it once, sealing their agreement. "I like to be on equal footing with everyone around me, even my own beloved husband." She replied, placing an affectionate hand on her stomach. She was seven months along, only one away from delivering. A proud mother, Sherlock could find so little of her past in her demeanor. He could guess, but that would be going out of the perimeters of their deal. He put it out of his mind, leaving this puzzle best to be unsolved.

"What made you choose him?" He asked suddenly, genuinely curious, and the silence in the room for once was stifling. "Given what you appear to be, isn't John a little too average for you?" She smiled, a sly turning up of the lips as she looked up from where her thin fingers rested on her abdomen.

"What made you?" He narrowed his eyes, brow furrowing in confusion. Her grin only widened.

"What-" He began but was interrupted by John returning, flustered from his impromptu meeting.

* * *

"Mary?" John came into the room then, agitated beyond what he thought was possibly, though the color drained from his face when he saw his wife and Sherlock sitting together. They had been alone, in a room together. The very thought of such a thing sent his insides knotting painfully together and brought a guilty sweat to the back of his neck and into his palms.

"Oh, John. What did the patient want?" Mary asked with a note of feminine curiosity and empathy, her expression shifting from the apathetic determination to a simpering wide-eyed one that nearly gave her husband whiplash. He felt his mouth go dry, stone forming in his throat. It was an irrational reaction, but he could hardly quell the anxiety freezing him at this moment.

"Just an upset patient, dear." It came out in a forced manner after he fought to process this turn of events he was now presented with. "What were you two talking about?" He inquired in what he hoped was an offhand tone.

"Oh, he was just telling me about his trip. You know how curious I am about going from realm to realm." Mary replied sweetly, appearing ethereal with her soft curls and doting eyes. It was easy to love her, and yet he stole a glance at Sherlock, feeling that familiar magnetic pull drawing him to the foreign man.

It was strange. Sherlock was here, in his home, apparently having talked to his wife while he was berated by an angry patient. He seemed out of place, as he always had in Guier, an alien among such average faces, refreshing and untouchable. How many times, on a lonely night when John couldn't sleep, had he sat in this room, on that couch, wishing for the man to be beside him, to drive away his embedded sorrow? He had him here now, though, and honestly didn't quite know what to do with that.

"What's brought you here, exactly?" John asked, his curiosity outweighing his momentary reflection. "Your letter didn't exactly say much."

"Mary, if you could step out of the room." Sherlock said in an authoritative voice, giving her fake smile.

"What for?" She replied simply, making no move to stand. "I'm comfortable here, and John's going to tell me anyways when he gets back." John was about to protest, say he wouldn't do such a thing if Sherlock asked, but the man in question seemed to make up his own mind first.

"A small container was found in one of the bombed buildings planted specifically for me."

"What was inside?" John asked, taking a seat next to his wife and putting an arm around her shoulders. He could see Sherlock's eyes narrow in on the motion, and there was a small thrill of glee at the other man's jealousy from the simple action.

"Another sample of reptilian skin and a small card calling me back here."

"Skin? Like the one found when you saved all of those Farish?" Mary questioned. Sherlock seemed taken aback. "I've read about most of the things you got up to while you were here last. John had written all about it in such fantastic detail." He glanced to John at that, smirk on his face, though John did his best to ignore it.

"Are we just waiting for something else to pop up or-" The automated knocker sounded for a second time in an hour, interrupting him.

"It would seem so." Sherlock replied, with an infuriating smugness. Lestrade was soon ushered into the room, clothes rumpled and clear bags under his eyes. His body spoke of exhaustion, yet he still had enough energy to politely acknowledge Mary, before addressing Sherlock, who had moved from his seat.

"Mycroft told me I could find you here." He said, holding out a hand in greeting, appearing genuinely happy to see Sherlock. "Welcome back."

"Where do you need me?" Sherlock ignored the gesture, searching Lestrade's face for anything. His wings were spread in anticipation, fluttering while Lestrade put his hand down.

"Good to see you too." He grumbled as he fished in his pocket for a slip of paper, presenting it to Sherlock grimly. "Another explosion, this time on Baker street, happened about an hour ago. We found this etched into what was left in the building. The owner says it wasn't there before so…" John stood up at this, thoughts immediately turning to Mrs. Hudson. He hoped she was alright.

"How many bombings have there been?" Sherlock asked, unfolding the slip.

"Counting today? Five." Sherlock nodded, handing John the paper and clasping his hands before his face with his usual anxious expression as the case began to present itself. The doctor read over the crumpled note, a coldness shooting down his neck as his mind interpreted the hastily scribbled message.

_221C_

"Oh my gods." He looked to Sherlock, who was watching him, practically squirming with excitement in stark contrast to the horror that the note had elicited in him.

* * *

What's Mary hiding? What's at Baker Street? What are John and Sherlock going to do with all these feelings? Why am I asking you all of these questions? Next chapter: Stuff happens! But more on that next time. Thank you for reading, and feedback fuels my writing passion, or something.


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I find the staggered opinions on Mary interesting. I'm curious about where this might lead you readers. Warnings for depictions of past violent acts, and some actual violence. Thank you for all the loveliness about last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

**Chapter Four: Prelude  
**

"Sherlock." She grabbed him by the arm as he moved to leave the home. Her brows were furrowed, mouth set in a thin line as she stared at him. "If he comes back injured in any way that you could've prevented, I will not hesitate to pluck every feather on your body with the hottest wax I can find before finding out exactly how well you can fly without them after I throw you off the tallest building in the city." Impressively, it was said all in a single breath, ended with a little pat on his shoulder.

"I doubt you're swollen middle would allow for such activities." He hissed back. She smirked, reaching around and, before he could pull away, plucked out one of his quills with a swift precision, twirling it in her fingers when he did manage to escape. The pain that followed was intense as it was brief, leaving a dull ache in the spot as he fought down the instinct to strike back at her.

"That's the second time you've misjudged me, Sherlock. I suggest you avoid it in the future." With that, Mary waddled her way down the hall and up the stairs, disappearing from view with his feather still held in her minuscule hands. Beneath his shock and indignation that she had gotten the better of him, Sherlock had to hold back a laugh; he had come for the mystery of Moriarty, and found the enigma of Mary as well.

"Are you coming?" John inquired from behind him, gaze darting between him and where Mary had disappeared.

"Of course." He replied, following him out to the carriage that awaited to carry them to their destination.

* * *

"Has anyone inquired about this place?" Sherlock asked, John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson right behind as they descended to the door of 221C Baker Street.

"Oh, not for a while. I just can't anyone interested. Suppose that's the curse of basements."

"Yes, but has anyone been in here recently?"

"No, no one's asked to see it, and I've got the only key." She insisted, handing it over obediently when Sherlock held out his hand for it. "Why do you ask?" Sherlock didn't answer, unlocking the old door with determined hand before stepping in, John and Lestrade following closely. 221C was empty, a barren flat that he knew from his previous residency that Mrs. Hudson cleaned once a week just in case any takers decided on checking it out. They didn't have to go far into the place to find what was left for them.

It the middle of what would be the sitting room was a gift box of medium size, wrapped with a magenta bow just at the top, a small tag jutting out from the elegant folds of the ribbon, Sherlock's name in clear print on its surface. John and Lestrade exchanged equal looks of amusement and confusion while Sherlock slowly approached the box, caution in every step. Not a thing said the room was not trapped with some explosive or magical element. Thankfully, Sherlock reached the gift without a mishap, still in one piece, picking it up with ease in one simple motion.

They held their breath as he made to open it, both John and Lestrade jumping when the bluecoat's wrist beeped tremendously in the hush of the room. "Sorry," He apologized, fiddling with the device attached to his left arm, pulling out a small strip of parchment that printed itself out of the side. "Damn. There's been another murder."

"Another?" John asked.

"That makes seven then." Sherlock muttered, to no one in particular, though Lestrade took note.

"Mycroft tell you that? Whole city's in an uproar and he goes and blabs about it all over Exemia too, I'll bet." There was a hint of smile, a scant amount of affection on Lestrade's lips as he said it. "I have to go take care of this, and when I get back, I need a full account on what's in there, alright?"

"Fine, yes." Sherlock waved him off, and soon they were left alone in 221C. "We should take this upstairs. Come on."

"What do you know about Moriarty so far?"

"Not much. He has considerable power in several different illegal occupations, as you could guess, has most of his influence in Trias and a few of the lesser known realms, and he has a pathfinder." Sherlock answered on their way up the seventeen steps.

"A pathfinder?" An astonishing revelation, truly. "How? Not even our government has one."

"Not exactly difficult to find a pathfinder if you know how to bribe one out of hiding." John knew little of the reclusive people, only that they had a few special abilities at their disposal, the most notable being able to move between realms without a rip. It was because of this, they were highly sought after by anyone and everyone. Having an inexhaustible source of transport was invaluable to those who knew how to use it. The pathfinders hid, however, away from society, far from anyone who wished to use them. John had never met one, but everyone knew what to search for if they wanted to know if someone was a pathfinder. He had heard that a mark appeared on their bodies, two crossing scars to form an X to brand them forever with their true natures(1).

Upon entering 221B, Sherlock immediately headed for the table, setting the gift upon it. John took a questioning eye around, not having been in the flat for some times. Little had changed of course, just a little messier than he had left it with Sherlock's baggage strewn about haphazardly.

"John." Sherlock said as he pulled off the lid, letting it fall to the floor with a muffled thump. He took his place next to his friend, peering into the box and would have laughed at its contents if the situation were different.

"It's a hat." A leather one, a bleached sea green with a black band wrapped around its base, the edges of the brim frayed from what could only be age. Sherlock lifted it from the confines of the package, twirling it once before setting it upon the table. Underneath was a smaller case, made of wood and inconspicuous until Sherlock slid it open and John openly gasped at the contents, placing a hand over his mouth as he choked down the bile that had risen into his throat. Nestled neatly upon the velvet lining was unmistakably a human ear, crusted with blood and pale in the light. "Damn."

Sherlock grunted in response, closing the container and lifting the final object from the gift box, a small note, written in ink the same color as the ribbon.

_In nine hours from opening this package, the ear will be the largest piece left of its owner, unless the puzzle is solved. One more housewife and they won't even find enough to bury._

_Were you waiting for me?_

"How would he know if the gift had been opened?" John asked immediately.

"He doesn't have to. The explosion went off not long after I arrived. I would assume by that he's watching and he's giving that hour between then and now as a free pass." He picked up the hat again, examining it this way and that. Sherlock swept a finger underneath the band, gathering a small amount of dust in which he scrutinized.

"What is it?" Sherlock brought the substance to his nose before giving it a tentative lick, screwing up his face at the taste.

"Salt, more specifically sea salt."

"From here?"

"No, but I'm going to need the use of a lab to be sure." It was how they ended up at the local higher education, down in the basement with Molly, of all people. She had been shocked by their appearance, opting to stay later in order to visit with them, or Sherlock as it were, though he paid her little mind. She asked many things, mostly about his wings, how they were holding up, if he could fly. She gave up after the third time of trying to coax a response out of Sherlock, deciding to stand by John instead.

"They let me use the cadavers for practice here." She stated as John and her watched Sherlock mix a few chemicals unknown to either of them that he had brought with him in a small case.

"Really?" John had to ask, genuinely surprised. She nodded with a sad smile. Molly was more put together than the last time he had seen her.

"Yes, I've been needing it ever since… I'm not as good as him, by any degree, but he left the business to me since I don't have a husband and someone has to support his wife and children." He laid a hand on her shoulder in comfort while she blinked back tears. He knew she had been close to Mike, almost like a second daughter. "It's just so horrible, isn't it? Mrs. Stamford still won't leave the home, not until they catch the criminal."

It had happened three weeks ago, on a rainy night. Mrs. Stamford had woken up to find her husband lying dead next to her, gutted while she had slept peacefully beside him. Needless to say, the family was devastated with Mike becoming the third victim of the most recent serial murderer in Guier. John had been called to examine the body, seeing how the bluecoat's usual had been sent to the ward with the smog sickness(2). He had seen plenty of friends dead during his time in the Southern Lands, having them brought in to slowly and painfully pass on dirty cots in the damp of the camps. Even more bodies now that he was physician in the cursed city, as he was slowly realizing that was what the place had become.

This had been more surreal. He wasn't in the army anymore, and the particular method used to end Stamford's life had left his corpse disturbingly flayed. John had to step out of the room for a moment to collect himself before he could determine anything about it. He couldn't imagine what the wife had felt waking up to a mattress soaked in blood and her husband's innards strewn across the quilts.

"I'm sure they'll catch him soon." The funeral had been a terrible affair before Stamford's body was taken to the be buried in the large cemetery outside of Guier(3). Mary had been a blessing as always, taking John into her arms afterwards and comforting through the evening as his first nightmares since Sherlock's leaving had struck him.

"Finally!" Sherlock cried, breaking the mournful silence in the room that had proceeded John's assurance.

"Any luck?" Molly asked, a little too eagerly, jealously beginning to simmer low in John's stomach at the way Sherlock's feather's puffed importantly at her interest.

"Oh yes." He said, as the door to the lab opened, a man in casual clothes stepping through.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" He asked, hand on the door to leave if the answer was yes. John felt something in him stutter, his blood freezing at the sight of the large eyes scanning the room. He shook his head, reminding himself to breath as he frantically calmed the irrational fear that had hit him so suddenly. Those dark orbs caught his for just a moment, and he could've sworn he saw the same predatory sheen in the stranger's gaze as he had in the nazzers he had faced in annuals past.

"Oh, hi!" Molly grinned happily at the sight of this man, going over to him. They gave brief exchanges for just a moment, before the stranger pressed a kiss to her cheek, and John had to keep himself from lunging at him, every synapse in his brain screaming at him that this being was not what he seemed. The man left after that, apologizing once more and his eyes lingered on Sherlock who steadily ignored the minor disruption with a disgruntled expression.

"Sorry, that was just Jim. We're courting, you see." She told them excitedly. John nodded, still shaken.

"And it must suit you Molly. Why don't you run along to your date?" Sherlock piped in, affronting Molly with his directness and barely noticeable condescension. Embarrassed, she dismissed herself in a hurry, Sherlock's mask of kindness melting into agitation. "He's been stealing from her ever since they got together. She'll find out tonight when he tries to snatch her coin purse."

"What?"

"I would've told her but it would've been a useless argument. She wouldn't have believed me until she saw it for her own eyes. Boring." He finished with a long-suffering sigh.

"Why not call him out on it when he was here?" Sherlock shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

"What for? He wouldn't return the money either way, and this at least save's Molly the embarrassment of her mistake in love outed before two other people. A tedious waste of time. Or did you forget why were here?" John pursed his lips but said nothing, letting Sherlock win this one.

"What have you found then?"

"As suspected, the hat is from Exemia. Traces of zwa located in the salt residue, which reacts in a very particular to certain common chemicals. Well taken care of, around twenty-five to thirty solars old, made of a very specific type of hide that- oh." He stopped, eyes widening and wings lifting just so.

"What is it?"

"We'll need to head back to Baker street, but this... it's the sailor..." He trailed off, not saying another word until they had left.

"There was a man, a sailor, in Pereshin," He began once they were comfortably on their way, seated in the yusuei-drawn carriage. Evening was beginning to fall as they had wasted almost four hours in the lab. "Whose ship was used to transport various fruits from the outlying islands around the continent, some of which Mummy was rather fond of. He was infamous around the docks for his hat, which he would never miss an opportunity to tell any passerby about how he obtained it. I had been subjected to it once myself when Mycroft and I had been sent to have the first pick of the ship's wares.

"A few solars later, he died, having a fit and falling over the side of the ship into the sea where he drowned. An Exemian sailor died by drowning? No one thought it was suspicious."

"No one except you, of course." Sherlock nodded at this.

"I was only a child myself. My wings hadn't even grown in(4), but the news had spread fast around the docks and even Mycroft knew of the news in all of his obliviousness to the 'common' people. I asked around his coworkers the next time we were in town, but they all said the same thing, that he was a poor Marvolo, and had fallen under the current he had been dealt. I had almost given up until I spoke to the youngest crew member. He told me that right when the man had his fit, he threw off his hat before falling overboard. Once the captain had proclaimed him lost and read his rites(5), the boy had searched for the hat, to give to his family, but it was nowhere to be seen.

"I had tried to get the help involved, but they wouldn't listen to me, nor would Mummy. The hat was never seen again, until now." He held it in his hands carefully, concentrating on it as if it held some long lost secret. It must bother him, this age old mystery now brought back to the light, a proof of one of his failures. John let the quiet between them persist, knowing Sherlock would be dissecting everything about the hat in his hands and would loathe to be interrupted. Instead, he let his mind wander to what a younger Sherlock would've looked like, a scrawny child without the signature wings adorning his back running about the wilds of Exemia. He smiled at the innocence of the thought, imagining what a terror an adolescent Sherlock might've been for the rest of the brief trip.

They came to Baker Street, Sherlock leaping out quickly to head inside, leaving John to pay. "13,97." The driver told him in a gruff tone.

"Seems a little cheap for that trip." John said as he fished out his coin. The driver shrugged taking the money before sending his animals trotting down the street. John left it for the kindness of an odd stranger before following Sherlock into the flat.

Not three hours later, Sherlock was pacing in frustration, wings cupping his back as he muttered to himself. John sat upon his old chair, watching with some amusement that shone through the apprehension as there was not much time before the woman would be murdered.

"Something killed this man, but what? There's no poison on the lining, nothing could conceivably cause a healthy person to fall to his death. It's staring me in the face, I know it!" He bemoaned, flopping onto the couch with a flourish.

"Hm, maybe it's something inside the hat? Maybe some sort of magic or-"

"No, of course not. I've already checked unless…" The was a moment as his eyes darted back and forth quickly while he assessed whatever idea had occurred to him. "Possibly, but that would mean…" He bounced off of his spot, practically flying across the room to grab the hat once more. "John, I need something from you."

"What is it?" He asked, sitting straighter. Sherlock approached, holding out the hat to him.

"I need you to wear this." John did not take him seriously at first, smiling at the joke, yet the deadpan delivery caught him off guard.

"You're serious? You want me to wear a hat that killed a man?"

"Well, seeing how we are on land and the actual cause of death was a large hard to miss body of water, I assume you're relatively safe." John regarded him, waiting for Sherlock to retract the hat. "Please, John. The cause of the fit was directed at an Exemian, and, as I am one, I can't wear it, otherwise it would already be on my head."

"Sherlock, I'm not- How do you know it won't be worse?"

"You are a heartier breed when it comes to poisons and 'magic' as you so call it. Please John, the sooner we figure it out, the sooner the woman can be freed." Against his better judgment, John grabbed the article from Sherlock's grip, and reluctantly placed it over his head. He didn't know what to expect, so when nothing initially happened, he breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock didn't bother hiding his disappointment.

"Where are you going?" John demanded when he began walking away.

"I'll just be a moment." He called back, disappearing supposedly into his room. John rolled his eyes, feeling ridiculous with the hat upon his head. He sat stubbornly, tapping his fingers as he waited for Sherlock to return, sighing when he noticed the heat that seem to exude from the object on its head. He didn't know what kind of leather it was made of, but the material was thick and heavy, and it wasn't long before a clammy sweat began to prick upon his brow. He wiped his forehead when it began to fall easily from his skin and there was a pause before a low hiss began to emit from the lining. He noticed it too late as a faint scratching started upon his arm.

He ignored it, wondering about the sound and he pulled his arm up to take it off when he noticed the blood beginning to well upon his skin. "What in the-" he began, cut off by a yelp when the scratching became a stabbing and slices began to appear on the back of his hand, wrist, and arm. He jumped up, yelling out with a strangled shout as he gripped his limb, unable to stop the marks from appearing or the pain from shooting through him. He ran to the kitchen with his blood dripping freely to the floor as Sherlock reappeared, pulling off the hat as he reached John, who had begun the tap. Water ran down his arm, cooling pain while washing away the dark liquid obscuring his skin.

"What happened?" Sherlock questioned, hysteria belaying his calm facade, rustling around next to him, but John couldn't be bothered as the markings began to stop appearing, though the pain was still raw and fresh.

"I don't know. I don't know! Oruik my arm, Sherlock, my-" He stopped, throat catching as the patterns began to make sense in his agony addled brain. "Sh-Sherlock." The man approached, hat, now glowing softly in random swirling impressions, in hand.

"What is it?" He only had to take one look at John's massacred arm to realize exactly what the cursed hat had done. From just under his wrist to just below the knuckles, was another message, etched in the same handwriting deep into his skin in rapidly scabbing wounds. "Now we know what happened with the hat." Sherlock said after a lengthy pause. This time, John only barely kept himself from punching the man in the face.

* * *

1- Pathfinders are similiar to Outska in that they avoid normal civilization, but are different in that this is a choice for them. They tend to hide in lesser realms, where people won't search for them, but some crave their home world and will find a way to disappear in plain sight so they can carry out normal lives.

2- Smog sickness is the common term for when someone succumbs to all of the bad air around Guier from the factories. It's similar to any other lung disease in which the person slowly suffocates from the inability to breath.

3- Northern metal-worker funerals involve a gathering of the deceased's closest family and friends, where they pray for the person who is placed in a metal casket and is given a piece paper and pen before burying them. Since metal-workers do not believe in a 'death' god to guide them, the paper and pen are meant to help the person's essence find the appropriate afterlife. Two certain beings are said the draw the map for the deceased, one of which draws to the good afterworld, while the other tricks the essence into the bad one. People who follow the religion correctly will always choose the right being and will inevitably go in peace.

4- Anhelans are not born with wings. They grow in around puberty (for Sherlock, this would be between fourteen and sixteen), and the children must learn how to fly.

5- Exemian ritual for a death at sea is a series of 'rites' read by the captain to help calm the soul, since being dead must upset you quite a bit, and help it detach from it's body at the bottom of the sea so that it can find the next life since a more traditional fire is not available to help rid of the body (since a body is the entrapment and the fire break its hold on the spirit). If the captain dies, the next in line would perform the act. This practice is mostly found with sailors around Sherlock's homeland, as methods of death rituals vary from society to society.

If you actually want to know more about either of the religious practices, you can ask in the reviews or on my tumblr (link on author's page). I find these kinds of these interesting, so that's why I included them for anyone else who did. Hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear from you! Until next time.


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Quick update, kind of a filler-yet-not-really chapter since I'm moving and I really need to concentrate on packing instead of writing. Sorry if its not that great, but I just needed to put something up since it'll be a while before I can update again. Warning for sexual situations. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 5: Longing Before the Storm**

_When the morning comes, a man will be reported missing. Six hours from this happening, three buildings with be blown higher that the stars. Find the man, or the people inside won't make it out alive._

_We were made for each other, Sherlock._

By the time Sherlock was done copying the words etched into his arm onto a piece of parchment and had finished sending a word to Lestrade to notify him of all missing persons reports for the next ten hours, the suns had set and the moon was hanging high in the sky. John was just finishing bandaging his wound, glaring at the cursed hat every few moments when his skin gave a particular violent twitch. Mrs. Hudson had brought up tea for them, coddling over Sherlock's return and cooing when she noticed John's arm. Sherlock had shooed her out, claiming they had important business to conclude, but not before she gleaned one more hug from him.

"How long will this stay on my arm?" John asked at one point quietly. Sherlock had shrugged, re-reading the message once more.

"Depends on the caster. Could fade in a few days, or stay just as fresh for annuals. Not much is known about enchantments outside of the realm they come from." He added the last part as an afterthought, crossing the room to one of the bare walls and began pinning what items he could from all of the events he could relate to Moriarty. It would be simpler to have them all on display, to be able to go between each event and connect what he could. What was Moriarty? He could be anything, feasibly, but with this amount of knowledge and power at his disposal, it narrowed the field considerably.

Behind him, John gave a muffled grunt, and he glanced back at him. The man was adjusting his position, avoiding putting weight on his injured hand. He wanted to comfort John, sit near him and bandage his arm for him, but he was certain the other man wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, Sherlock continued his work, observing from the corner of his eye as John gingerly relaxed into his seat, hand held stiffly on the chair.

He had examined the hat thoroughly, taking note of an older curse encrypted under the most recent. Mortal enchantments were mostly foreign to him, only having seen a few charmed objects for sell in the Pereshin markets. They were nothing like this, their powers directed toward luck and love that only tourists and gullible Marvolos took advantage of. What he did know of the craft was its curious nature, how it only worked under certain conditions with specific runes written or words uttered, but the resulting efferts could last for decades, something unheard of in any other type of 'higher energy' studied.

Most dismissed the mortal magic for nonsense, child's play that held no use in the more brash powers of the higher beings. He had held the worn hat, frustrated with the meaningless symbols that burned into the accessory with a mirthful intensity. They had faded slightly from when John had worn it, activated it, and in a few hours, would disappear completely.

"There are theories. Legends, about this sort of thing." He told John as it came to the forefront of his thought process. "The merchants love to tell a small child all kinds of stories of their wares. That a master at the 'arcane(1)', as they called it, could do anything. I assumed it mostly false, until now."

"Do you think Moriarty is a mortal?"

"No, but he has one under his influence. A mortal cannot gain that sort of status. No one in their right mind would allow it. They would be put on a leash before too long.(2)." John seemed to agree, wincing again before checking the window. He was going to try and leave, using Mary as an excuse since the night had wound down, and it was just him and Sherlock alone together. It was a logical move for both of them, and Sherlock ignored his irritation at the whole affair.

"It's getting late. Mary will be worried." John announced, getting to his feet smoothly, and Sherlock wondered if Mary would count John's arm as an injury he could've prevented. He couldn't stop the twitch of guilt that it caused him to think of it that way; John was hurt and it was possibly his fault. He would argue that there was no way of knowing that hat had a relatively unknown enchantment on it until it had been activated, yet it didn't ease his conscious.

"You could stay here for the night." It had come out without a single thought and it took every ounce of control not to appear horrified at his own words. John was silent at first, and Sherlock knew what was coming next, despite the rush of idiotic hope trying to worm itself to the forefront.

"No, Sherlock." Was his answer, and Sherlock should have left it at that. They didn't need to be in close proximity alone; it wasn't conducive for their need to be distant if they wished to stay apart, but Sherlock didn't want that. John should be staying here with him, not going back to that woman, and, for the second time in three annuals, his rigid control over his instinctual side slipped ever so slightly.

"Why not? It's not as if I'm asking you to stay with me specifically. There is a murderer on the loose and there's a room upstairs. You'll have to be back here in the morning either way." He was extremely close to smacking himself, wondering if that would help him control his tongue. John gave no rebuttal this time, merely gave him an expression of mild irritation, knowing that the obvious had no reason to be stated. "Fine. Waste your coins when there's free room right here."

"What happens if I stay, with you? Do you think I'd actually stay in m- the room upstairs alone? Or did you actually forget the reason you left in the first place?"

"You really don't trust me enough to leave you alone." He stated it as a matter of fact, and John shook his head.

"You're not the one I'm worried about Sherlock." He retorted, opening the door to go. "I'll be back in the morning. Good night." The door sounded impossibly loud as it slammed after him.

"There are times I wonder how you managed to woo him in the first place." Came the cool drawl of his brother directly behind him. He approached casually, umbrella swinging off his arm as he stared in a bored fashion at the where John had just been. "Amazing you haven't driven him off yet, but that's kerlaily for you."

"I assumed keeping him at bay was the intention." Sherlock had stopped being startled by his brother's sudden appearances, and didn't bother to glance at Mycroft as he continued to pin up his map. The man's mastery of the art made him silent without the usual pop or rustle that affected the area for most people. "Or had I misunderstood the constant berating from you and Mummy?"

"Ignored it, it would seem. Why is that the moment you return to this forsaken realm, you immediately seek him out to traipse into dangerous situations when he has a family relying on him now?"

"There's something you are here for other than bothering me with trivial details. I suggest you tell me what it is, and then leave."

"You left Pereshin at the right time. Exemia is in an uproar at the moment."

"The mortal world collapsed." Sherlock said to no one in particular, smoothing a hand over one of the pieces of skin now tacked to the wall. "Not often that happens. I can't understand why anyone should be bothered by it though. How many did they relocate?"

"Two million mortals." There was a pause and Sherlock's own movements stopped with it. "And ten thousand Sericks."

"What?"

"There's no place for them yet. Mummy is saying they will be placed in a temporary location, somewhere secluded with a few of the mortals. Vhrakeras are outraged that they might have to share a food supply, and the Marvolos aren't keen on being said supply." Sericks were a predatory people, higher beings such as the Exemians, save for their taste for the lower humans. Due to their unique qualities, their plight of being stuck on a doomed realm had appealed to the Exemian sense of playing gods. He knew little about the people; not one had stepped foot outside their home and had little consequence in his work. "Consider this a warning for when you return."

"What if I don't wish to?" Sherlock challenged.

"Once your done here, you will return to Exemia. Nothing is going to stop that, even if I have to drag you there myself."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Good luck, Sherlock. Try to keep John and Mary's knotting intact while you're here, would you?" He blinked, and his brother had vanished without a whisper in the air. Sherlock turned back to the now finished map, his interest in it gone for the moment as Mycroft's warnings sunk in. He was right, as much as Sherlock loathed admitting it. It wouldn't take effort to coerce John away from his happy life with his wife. Even the child would become irrelevant in the wake of finally sealing their bond. Afterwards, John would still care for Mary sure, but not physically, or as deeply as he had.

It was a heady sense of power that Sherlock had knowing he could ruin them with ease and take what he wanted right from the woman's dainty fingers. He clung to the logic, however. John needed a normal life with her in order to keep on living, since Sherlock currently had no way to smuggle him out.

Sherlock found himself at one of his travel cases, opening it with a practiced ease before he gingerly pulled out the small wooden box, plain and unassuming, from its place, cradled among clothes and other necessities. He stood, undoing the latch and lifting the lid to reveal four separate envelopes, each opened with a meticulous hand ages ago and now crinkled and spotted with the oil from Sherlock's fingers. With careful handling and a small amount of zwa, he had kept the pages inside well preserved.

He grabbed one, the third in the series of pleas sent from John annuals before now, taking the actual letter from its envelope before sitting gingerly on the sofa. He had each branded in his mind, able to close his eyes at times and murmur each word to himself if he wished. There was something about holding the parchment in his hands and reading the passages again, a sentimental ache that gripped him as a lover might. It soothed him, yet here, he did not find it to be true.

He cast a glance to his travel case again, the need for his distraction pricking at the corner of his brain, making his wings flicker with the thought of it. Instead, he replaced the letter, taking out the lock of hair Moriarty had gifted him with his first taunt, placing it in his pocket. He made his way to the window, wooden box set upon the nearby desk. When the glass was open to a point he could squeeze through, he pushed out, wings spreading as he took off into the night, well above Gueir.

It was a surprisingly cool evening, the sky barren of the usual smog-like cloud cover, though few stars could be seen with the well-lit city below. The people milled around, the late-night workers, the drunks, and the homeless, their movements strangely reminiscent of small insects as they meandered through the streets and alleys, breaths heavy and loud even from Sherlock's vantage in putrid air.

The air cradled him, soothed him, as it should, and he could lose himself in the freedom of the space, thoughts flowing freely. They strived to think of John and their own predicament, but he no time for such trifle matters. Moriarty was at hand and Sherlock stubbornly began piecing together what he could about the unknown criminal. A para bird, golden and puffy flew next to him, keeping pace with his lazy drifting until dawn began to break over the city.

* * *

The house was quiet when John returned, with only the crackling of the fire in the hearth offering any sign of life. Marjorie had gone home, and he had hoped Mary was asleep, but, alas, she was awake, reading on the sofa in the sitting room in her nightgown.

"Good evening." She greeted cheerily, though her face fell when she saw the bandage upon his hand. "Oh dear, what happened?" He came over so she wouldn't get up herself. She became so dizzy lately. He had told her to stay in bed for her own good, but Mary was not one to listen, always needing something to do.

"It was my own fault." He told her when she gingerly took his injured hand in hers. "Never listen to Sherlock when he asks you to something so mundane as putting on a hat." He let out his own chuckle, though Mary was less than amused. She pulled him to sit beside her as he told about his day, always the attentive listener to his tales. When he finished, she pressed herself against him, trying to comfort John with her affection and a kiss to his cheek.

Settled, with Mary cuddled next him and his arm around her, John should've been able to relax, familiar with this scene from so many nights spent this way. He couldn't however, her petite body not fitting right against him this time, the smell of her perfume stinging his nose for the first time since they had been together. Where he expected an unruly mop, he had her well-kept hair, and where he yearned for a lithe figure, he found her soft, plump stature. It felt wrong, yet he held her still, ignoring the pestering feeling in his skin.

"How is the baby?" He asked, needing the distraction of conversation.

"Fantastic. It missed you while you away, kicking up a storm without its father around." She told him sweetly, and he curiously found a hand to her belly, but only the warmth of her skin met his fingers. "Calmed down now that your back." He hummed a noncommittal noise.

"We're all decided on the names, yeah?" She had told him a hundred times, but he enjoyed hearing the names again.

"Hamish for a boy, and Sophie for a girl." He had a secret wish for the child to be a girl so he could spoil her relentlessly. Either way, he'd be happy. They stayed quiet for a bit, the heat and closeness mostly soothing. "Would you ever go away with Sherlock?"

"What?" He had to ask, unsure if he had heard correctly. Mary plucked at his fingers where they were seated upon her middle, entwining them with hers, a solemn furrow in her brow.

"If he asked you to go away with him, to some other realm, would you?" The voice was paced, devoid of any telling accusations, but it didn't stop his heart from hammering in his chest with a disassociated guilt.

"Of course not. I have you and the baby." The answer may have been too quick, for her grip tightened on his hand.

"What if you didn't? What if I was gone or the child was?" She turned to him, searching his face for the answer with frantic eyes.

"Why are you asking this?"

"That doesn't answer my question, John." He stared into her eyes, throat dry at her words and mind fantastically blank at the moment.

"I don't know." He answered sincerely, and she gave a sad smile, slipping out of his grasp. She stood, leaning over to press a kiss to his nose then his mouth before beginning to walk out. Mary stopped at the door, glancing back at him, any morose tells erased and a come hither expression on her features. She leaned against the frame, body open and telling.

"I'm going to bed. Will you join me, doctor?" She teased. Any other night, he would've taken her into his arms and led her to their room.

"Ah, no. I'm going to stay here for a bit longer. Hand still twinges too much." It wasn't a complete lie, and Mary shrugged, bidding him as good night before disappearing into the hall. He leaned back, wounded arm over his eyes and sighing into the empty room. He knew what was happening, as it had before. When he and Mary had first begun courting, there had been period when any physical contact initiated had to be swiftly stopped, John unable to respond properly. He hadn't wanted her in that way and it had taken months before he could even begin to reciprocate.

Now, he felt it starting up again, the thought of being intimate with his wife beginning to almost frighten him, knowing that she wouldn't be the one he wanted. With the quiet of the night around him, he could feel the memories of his and Sherlock's time together come forth again, playing out behind his eyelids. It wasn't even their single night of passion, while still there, it was mixed with the affection of their previous relationship. He ached for it, for the light touches and shared looks in place of this new cold disposition that dominated their time together. Their brief moment in the carriage seemed a faraway event in light of the distance Sherlock put between them.

John could see how the scene might've played out differently, without Mary awaiting him at home and no damned laws keeping them apart. The bittersweet of the momentary touch would've been washed away, replaced by John's need for Sherlock. He could have drawn him in, kissed the man finally after so long of imagining it in the dark of his room when Mary was attending her classes. Perhaps he would've slid into Sherlock's lap, their mutual passion aflame as they groped from one another in the back seat of a public carriage. Sherlock would press his wings around John, that scent of his surrounding them and pulling them ever closer as a hand cupped him easily through his trousers...

With his wounded arm still over his eyes, his left had crept down to press against the growing tension between his legs, opening his flies and wrapping a hand around himself as a soft sound emitted from his mouth as the scene switched in his head. The sitting room at Baker Street now, on the sofa, John spread out with Sherlock systematically taking him apart with his hands and his mouth. He had to muffle a cry at the thought of it, sliding between those lips before the man would pull off just before he reached his peak, fingers drifting lower to tease around his entrance. One would slip in just ever so and-

Sherlock's name was on his lips as he found his release, panting from the effort and pleasure. It took a few blissful moments before his hand began to throb, renewed after the orgasm faded into the warmth of the room. He cleaned himself as best he could, and tucking himself back into his clothes. Exhausted and hurting, John had to force himself to stand, legs wobbly from the force of his earlier activities.

John needn't worry himself. Sherlock would be gone once Moriarty was caught, and life could resume as it should. There was a monster loose in Trias, and he had a child not a few weeks from being born, and that was something much more pressing then love lost._ Would you leave with him?_ The words resonated in him as he made his way to the bedroom, Mary gone from the world underneath the covers. John liked to believe he wouldn't as he dressed for sleep, eyes fixed on his wife as if her presence would seal his knotting vows in place, but that, in itself, was another lie waiting to unfold. He spent to night tossing in his sheets, sleep evading him and his own guilt ridden conscience.

* * *

1- Mortal realms are relatively common, and are often called fodder worlds, in which the people inside are numerous and disposable. Finding one that has arcane is like finding a needle in a haystack, since few of the realms are actually kept track of. Most are forgotten about, or used as pit stops for slavers who need to refill their inventory.

2- Again, being widely known as fodder, mortals are thought of as lower than cattle. There is a hierarchy established within the various species of known humans, ranked by natural energy manipulation (magic), physical prowess, extra abilities, etc. Exemians and Fel are thought of as at the top, Mercans and metal-workers in the middle, and mortals being lowest.

Felt like it was time to start earning that M-rating. Plus, guess who can't write dirty scenes and needs practice? Hope you enjoyed, and feedback is welcomed, cherished, and loved eternally!


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** It's been a while, hasn't it? Hope you didn't give up on this. Descriptions of violent acts ahead. Thank you to all the new followers and reviewers! You are all wonderful.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Opening Act  
**

Behind on his usual worship, John doubted he would be anywhere near the temples to pay his tribute and prayers as he awoke early to meet Sherlock at Baker Street. The bluecoats in charge of that particular division would have to deal with Mary taking his offering, though he knew they were never satisfied with such a thing, enforcing attendance and prayer whenever possible. Sometimes he wondered what the merits of the religion were, if all of the scriptures were merely propaganda and if his doubt was a key-in to the true purpose of such a demanding affiliation.

He shook these thoughts as he dressed. He could have the religious crisis when Sherlock left and Moriarty was properly dealt with. He looked to Mary, still asleep and buried beneath the covers. A smile was brought to his lips and he leaned over to press a farewell kiss to her forehead.

"You're going again?" He stopped, a hand having shot up and grabbing onto his arm. John peered down at his wife, blue eyes overcome with a clear apprehension as she watched him carefully.

"I'll be back tonight." He promised, trying to slip away but her grip was strong for such an exhausted individual.

"Your arm…"

"Is fine, really." He lied, even as it burned under the fresh bandages he had applied upon waking. The words were still raw and swollen, hot from healing and mostly encrusted. He'd had worse. She squeezed his wrist for a moment before letting go, settling back stiffly. "Will you be fine without me here?"

"Yes, absolutely perfect." She snipped, distaste lingering in her words. He knew he should reach out, return to bed, and allow Sherlock to care for himself for the day, but the urge to keep his friend out of danger was more prevalent one. Regretfully, he bid her farewell once more, leaving the bedroom in a hurry, knowing she was watching his departure with disdain. "I love you." She called out to him once more, voice thick with the onset of sleep.

John paused in the doorway taking a long moment before finally returning the words. He meant it, he knew that, but why did they stick to his tongue and leave a weight in his stomach?

The house was quiet save for his creaking footsteps and the usual settling noises of the old building. Outside was only marginally quieter, both suns having only just risen and the normal crowd of the day still tucked away inside the buildings, out of the crisp early air and in the warmth of their beds. John stepped out, wrapping his arms around himself to stave off the wet chill of the fog. He prayed to the gods Sherlock hadn't run off without him.

"Doctor! Doctor!" He turned from where he was hailing a carriage, a young boy running up to him with a neatly tied package in his arms. It might have been the paranoia of the past two days, but anxiety was the only response John found upon seeing it. "Sorry, but I saw you leaving and I need to deliver this to you. It's from the herbalist." He let out a breath, chastising himself.

"Fantastic. I've been needing a re-stock of azzert." He held out his hand, but the boy hesitated in giving it to him. "What?"

"He told me to tell you sorry, but he didn't have enough to complete the order. This is what he had left."

"I put in an order for 2,000 milligrams. How much is in here?"

"Somewhere around 1,397, I think, sir." John sighed, knowing that amount wouldn't last him through the month. Azzert was essential for opening the lungs of patients with the smog sickness. It didn't cure them, per say, but it allowed for some comfort during the earlier stages.

He paid off the lad and grabbed the package, sending him on his way before clambering into the self-drawn carriage before him. He'd have to leave it at Baker Street for the day. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson could keep track of it while he and Sherlock solved another of Moriarty's puzzles.

Just as John had walked into 221B, the messenger had come alive, Lestrade's report coming through. Sherlock scrambled to grab it, having been fidgeting on the sofa, waiting impatiently.

"A carriage was found, blood in the cab, no body in sight, and a missing person's report to go along with it. Come along, John, we have not much time!" As always, he was a whirlwind, whisking them out onto the street before John could even open his mouth in protest.

* * *

In retrospect, Sherlock had felt a rather large amount of disappointment, the puzzle seeming a just teaser for something larger. The opening act before the main event appeared before them. They had arrived at the abandoned carriage, the yusei dead upon the ground, along with the driver, their throats slit by a right-handed individual who was swift enough to catch them off guard.

The owner was nowhere to be found; blood pooled on the floor of the cab, the step down, and the cobblestone below and yet no sign of a struggle. Lestrade had already told them the object was under the ownership of a banker, coinciding with the report from earlier. The carriage seemed empty, only a small leaflet baring a few numbers.

"A transaction?" John suggested, when Sherlock showed him it.

"Top number is the weight of the object, and the bottom is the amount received, yet there's nothing to say what it was for. A rather illegal barter then." With this conclusion, he and John were set off towards the missing person's home.

John was distant from him, even in the ride over to the upper echelon of Guier, sitting in diagonally opposite him.

"How's the arm?"

"It's fine."

"Holding it close to your side, flexing the fingers to keep the stiffness out of your joints, flinching at every breeze… It's hurting you."

"If you knew the answer, then why ask?" Sherlock had no real reply, instead reaching across, holding out a hand for John's arm, who eyed him with some disdain, quirking a brow. He let Sherlock take his arm, hissing at the touch but saying little else. Sherlock held it carefully, running his fingers along the top of the bandages, assessing the damage for his own conscious. It was times like this when Sherlock felt annoyed with his own lack of ability in the healing arts. None of his family line had any talent in the area, but if he could take away John's pain for a moment...

The need to kiss John was overwhelming and Sherlock brought his arm up to press his lips to the bandaged wound only to have John pull back, glaring at him with a quiet 'Don't'. Sherlock nodded, glancing away, and they spent the rest of the trip decidedly not looking at one another.

The woman who answered the door, a housewife with a thin mouth, was not a woman in grief. Her cheeks were tinged pink with strong drink and clothes ruffled from the attentions of a greedy hand. Her dreamy expression slid away at the sight of John and Sherlock, replaced with one of empty emotion, body tensing when John offered a friendly smile.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Hello, we're-" John started, yet Sherlock was swift to interrupt.

"With the Bureau of Investigation. An alarm was raised that a wanted criminal was seen in this area. We'll need to search your home."

"What? You can't be serious!"

"Mr. Smith, would you please remind her was the penalty of refusing a bluecoat entrance to her home is?" Sherlock said to John, with a pointed look.

"Immediate arrest and trial, with a possible sentence to the mines." John answered, a little slowly for a real officer, but he did a well enough job for on the spot. The woman didn't seem to notice his mistake, thankfully.

"I still need to see the identification." She sniffed, holding out her hand. With a grunt, Sherlock pulled the badge he had stolen from Lestrade, flashing it before her. Satisfied, the woman led them in to her home, stiff and angrily. The home was cheap, every valuable object having been sold off and old furniture permeating a musty smell from years of storage having replaced those of marginal value. Sherlock could see the dust and lack of cleaning since the maid had been fired, and the empty spaces where foreign paintings and deity statues had once been.

She showed them to the sitting room, though Sherlock had little interest here, asking for the bedroom almost immediately. Same as the rest of the home, tell-tale signs of needing to pay off some debt and the owners doing their best to work with that. The only thing that caught Sherlock's eye was a small wooden jewelry box on the vanity, which he immediately reached for, noting the wife's immediate flinch.

"What was in here?" He asked, popping it open to find three slight indentations in the white inner lining and a copper-red that stained the once pure cloth within each of the dips.

"Just a few trinkets." She answered boldly, though the twitch in her left eye was enough to go on. Sherlock had seen this before, recalling his own revart stone and how intrigued he had been to happen upon it two solars after receiving it from the sea-farers. He had spent a long time testing to see how long it took the stain to begin, as his own had been so faint compared this example he now held in his hands. Who's ever the stones were, they had had them for decades; a treasure handed down from generation to generation.

It was then another member was added to their small gathering, whom Sherlock suspected was the missing man's younger brother. Judging by his own flushed cheeks and darting eyes, he had been off making himself presentable from whatever they had interrupted. He introduced himself as Harold, and Sherlock was quick to see where he fit in.

"Been traveling have we?" He asked, knowing the answer, but he would need John understand the circumstance, and it was best to leave a verbal trail.

"What? Oh, no. Had to spend a bit of time at the docks, you see." He answered vaguely, gesturing at his tan. "Would love to travel though." He added, smiling at John.

"Do you have change for a 20 piece? The shop down the street only excepts proper coin for purchases." Harold pulled out his purse, jumbling it and shaking his head.

"No, sorry." Sherlock smiled slyly.

"Ah, shame. Well, I think that's all we need. Come on, John." Sherlock directed them out, the couple wide eyed and confused at their sudden departure.

"What was all of that about?" John asked once they were out onto the streets of Guier once more.

"You'll see soon enough. We need to get back to Lestrade." They headed swiftly for the bluecoat headquarters, where Lestrade was undoubtedly going over paperwork at this time. The suns were reaching the midpoint, leaving them with little maneuvering time. Sherlock could see John fidgeting next to him, all to aware of the minutes ticking by.

"How much blood would you say was in the carriage?" Sherlock asked Lestrade once they arrived in his office.

"About a pint." He guessed gruffly, impatiently waiting for the full explanation.

"Exactly a pint. Our missing person is not dead at all. He gave a portion of his blood not long ago in preparation for this. A middle-aged man, with a wife cheating on him with his own estranged brother and up to his ears in debt, needed a way out. What more perfect then to steal his elderly neighbor's family priceless heirlooms, sell them, and escape to to the Southern continent with more money than he knows what to do with and a brand new life?"

"And how do you know he's in the South?"

"His brother, obviously. Guilty over stealing his wife, the brother obliged in helping settle him in. The tan from the Zeppelin ride and the late Humming suns, the Southern coins making up half of his purse... He possibly stole the stones as well. I would've checked the records on reported theft, but you see we're on a time crunch as it is. The wife had a hand in it too, selling the stones as her own jewelry, and mapping out where in the South he was to go, since she earned a rather hefty chunk in the whole affair. Now go and arrest them. It's what you're good for." With that, Sherlock swept John out of the building, all too aware of the quiet admiration exuding off of his companion as they clambered into a carriage.

His wings were puffing themselves with the familiar attention from John, fluttering involuntarily at the pleasure of it all. It was good to know that John still found some form of entertainment in Sherlock's abilities, even if he was acknowledging them quietly.

* * *

With a heavy sigh, John followed Sherlock into 221B, intent on retrieving his herbs and returning for a hopefully long rest within his own home before being called away once more. Moriarty may not have left a new message for them, but that didn't mean there wasn't one speeding to come into the light. As he entered, the sofa seemed inviting well-worn and familiar. No one would mind if he took a small moment to himself. With Sherlock having disappeared once again, John sat down, leaning back, closing his eyes and enjoying the still quiet of the flat.

When he came to, the suns were setting and John had to fight to leave his seat, his exhaustion barely sated. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he peered around for Sherlock, intent on saying goodbye, yet the man was nowhere to be found, with his bedroom empty and the kitchen with nary a feather to be found. Unknowing of why, John headed to the roof.

"Leaving?" John started when he opened the door, freezing for a moment when he registered exactly what Sherlock was doing. It was a queer sight, Sherlock easily floating in the air, his wings lazily pumping in space as he stared at John. The rustling of feathers and the gentle scrape of metal harmonized together in a pleasant accompanying hum as the appendages moved gracefully. The doctor gaped for a moment, mouth slightly askew before giving himself a shake.

"You're…floating." He finished lamely, feeling the smile begin to pull at his lips. Sherlock scoffed at him, alighting on his feet easily.

"Surprised you could tell." His response was cold and biting, still John pushed, against his better judgement. He was curious after all, having wondered often what Sherlock actually using his wings had looked like.

"I've just never seen you off the ground before."

"No, you haven't. Is this a surprising development?"

"It's not exactly normal to walk in on someone a few inches in the air, even with wings on their back." He joked, trying to coerce Sherlock away from his brisk attempts at driving John out. It didn't work as he had hoped, Sherlock beginning to face away.

"You have flying people here. How shocking is it, really?"

"If you're going to be a bastard, I'll just leave."

"You were leaving anyways." Sherlock was off in the air again, this time floating away. With a terse nod, John turned on his heel, headed back out the door. He wouldn't deal with the man in one of his black moods tonight. The case may have been short, but the madman was still on the loose, toying with Sherlock, whose response was to sulk. Fantastic. He had almost made it out when he paused, Sherlock speaking once again.

"I could take you with me." Sherlock had called from behind, stopping John who faced him with a properly bemused expression on his face. "In the air, I mean. It wouldn't be very difficult." Sherlock said in an offhand manner as though it were an everyday suggestion, floating ever closer. John chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the man before him bob up and down just so.

"You were just pushing me out the door, and how would that work? Not exactly easy to carry a grown man around." Sherlock shrugged, face still placid.

"You would lay on my front and we would float above the city. Or I could hold onto you horizontally. There's a variety of options." John heard the door close behind him as he stepped away, the sound of the city rustle a distant thing, and the idea truly struck him. He licked his lips, pressing a hand to his mouth.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"It doesn't work like that, Sherlock. You always have some elaborate or pointless reason for everything you do." Sherlock didn't answer, instead moving to stand just before him suddenly, John's breath catching in his throat at the swiftness of the action.

"Come with me." Sherlock had put his hands on John's shoulders, eyes pleading. What was he even asking? The question felt weighted, as though the meaning wasn't just a request to float above the city. Mary's words loomed in his head from the night before and he hesitated. Could he leave? "Please, John."

"Sherlock, I-" Can't? Won't? He had to be over thinking it, yet the begging expression and tight grip on his shoulders said otherwise. He felt a long fingers toy with the hair at the nape of neck, bringing them even closer. For an instance, it seemed as though they would kiss, and John was going to let it happen, all reasons as to why it shouldn't masked underneath the heat between them and the careful teasing fingers pulling him in...

"Sherlock!" They broke apart as if burned just as Lestrade burst through the door, breathless and white as a sheet. "You're going to need to see this."

* * *

The flat had been inhabited until its owners had been driven out by finding a corpse on their sitting room floor, Sherlock noted as they stepped inside, taking in the metallic scent of blood and the muted chill of death in the air. The original inhabitants had left in a hurry, fleeing when they entered their abode. Metal-workers had their own aversion to death, Sherlock had found, though his usual company had been able to move past that.

"Found not an hour ago when they rang the alarm. Matches the last seven victims in that we can't find anything that links them, except for the cause of death." Lestrade informed gruffly, staying a few feet back. John was doing the same. If there was one thing keeping one of them around for, it was to pick up on the small things Sherlock missed. Not details, but changes in the air, regarding magic and the like that Sherlock was too accustomed to find himself. An easy clue that there was an unseen factor taunting him as he examined the body. "You've been keeping up with the case?"

"I looked it over while John was having a nap." He could practically feel the glare on the back of his neck. "Our missing banker, it seems. That makes four metal-workers, two Farish, a Mercan, and hybrid." The stomach had been flayed open, just as three of the others, skin ripped to shreds and half of the intestines now a mashed up mockery of what they once were as though he had been mauled by an animal. He would've died slowly and agonizingly, finally perishing not long before being found.

The man was dragged in, slaughtered on the floor, yet no markings were upon his body save for the stomach, no direction was favored, the tool used an unremarkable one. There was nothing obvious, not a single factor that led him to the culprit. He was not willing to give up so easily, however.

"Gloves." He demanded, grabbing the disposable pair Lestrade offered and quickly pulling them on. Sherlock plunged his fingers into the mess, intent on finding anything, sure that something had been left behind in the body. Even he could admit to succumbing to a small queasiness as he carefully felt around, the squelching wet sound of shredded innards causing bile to rise in Sherlock's throat. Behind him, John moved even farther back, and Lestrade made a restricted gagging sound. Finally, he pulled out a small glass tube covered in the deep red of the copses blood. He wiped it off as best he could to peer inside, finding a piece paper rolled neatly within its confines.

"We've found our next clue." He said finally, voice hoarse and hand unsteady.

* * *

No notes for the chapter? Holy cow! Are we even sure this is the right story?!

Things are starting to roll now. Hopefully updates will come more regularly now that I'm all moved and settled into my new classes. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a fantastic thing.


	8. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Guess who had writer's block...again? Plus, I've been working on other writing projects. Do not fret, I need to see this to the end. Thank you to all those who are still following along. You are all wonderful people.

* * *

**Chapter 7: The Ice Man  
**

_Look to the sky. The ninth person will be dead by two hours past sunsset. Find and stop the murderer. _

_Tick tock, Sherlock.  
_

Eight bodies. All found in random locations, ranging from the factories to highest of society, some found in their homes, places of work, the streets, and even in stranger's abodes, such as the banker. All murdered the same way, abdomen gutted and torn apart while leaving the victim to die slowly of shock, blood loss, or infection. No links in knowledge one another, no traces of the killer at the scene of the crime, no telling clue. Just absolutely nothing save for the corpse cooling in the late Humming days. He had stared hard at the reports he'd gained from Lestrade, fingers pressed together before him.

Most telling sign was not the way they were all placed, lying on their back, nor the way their location, but what was left under them. Each report had a snippet, victim left to die on the ground or their bed, yet directly beneath them was a precise amount of their own matter. The victims had all been attacked upright at first, though the predator had been behind them, and bruising had been found upon each corpses chest where they had been held in place.

What could do such a thing? Such precise infliction, and enough strength to hold rather sturdy, often muscular victims while they were being torn open. There were a few possibilities, each more ridiculous than the last, but it seemed he couldn't put much past Moriarty. The most plausible explanation was an automation, a metal man from the Mercan side of Duoich(1). That would mean they were dealing with a non-human entity, a program, which would leave John and he in relative safety since it would have a predestined target.

Now he was at the map which plotted the locations, trying to see something he hadn't before. The points were meaningless, the pattern strange and unpredictable. Once connected, the points made a uneven square attached to a diagonal line, yet the measurements were random, no discernible equation behind them. Just eight dots that seemed as though they had thrown a knife to a wall and decided to murder someone there.

There had to be something more, and he had better find it soon, for John seemed to kick him out.

"Don't you have a map of Guier at the flat?" He had asked, annoyed yet agreeing all too easily to Sherlock's demands.

"Of course, but yours was closer." Was Sherlock's answer, and John had gone off to sit on the sofa in a huff, pretending to read the daily paper.

"My, my, what are we working on here?" Mary wandered in, all smiles and a hand resting upon her abdomen. She was exhausted, bags under eyes and a slow stiff presence in her gait that suggested more to her daily schedule then sleep and going over lesson plans. "What's this?" She gestured to the map, leaning over the desk where Sherlock was seated. He would prefer to be standing, but John gave a fervent no to tacking the map to a wall.

"The eight murders thus far in the city. We need to find the location of the ninth before it happens." He informed her, curiously eying her hard thinking face.

"I've seen this before." Mary whispered, hand tracing a few of the points before she moved away, purposefully, abruptly. Sherlock watched her go, brow furrowed in interest, half between telling her to leave and asking what exactly the woman was doing. He glanced at John as she bustled out of the room, the doctor shrugging at his wife's odd behavior.

"Yes, right here." She said almost breathlessly, large brightly colored textbook in her hands. She set it before Sherlock on the desk, the pages opened to a detailed diagram of a group of stars. "It's a constellation, from one of the mortal realms. Not a very common one between them all, but one none the less. You have the whole thing except for one right here." She pointed, quickly to a point in the diagonal line between two others that gave it a much more crooked shape, Sherlock following along easily enough. She glanced between the map and her book before setting it aside, going straight for the desk.

Withing minutes, a strange mathematical machine the metal-workers invented for pure laziness was in her hands as she scribbled upon a scrap piece of paper, taking measurements of the points in the map and pressing the minute buttons upon her device while Sherlock and John stood idly by. Sherlock watched intently, Mary revealing more and more about herself with each pass of her pen.

"Ah," She stepped back after plotting the final point. "Here you have it. The-" Sherlock pushed her aside, staring down at the enigma suddenly solved before him.

"The Exemian embassy." He muttered under his own breath.

"Yes, as I was about to say." Mary said sardonically.

"Interesting that you knew this from just a picture." He pondered, turning to her.

"Well, I am in the business of knowing the stars, Sherlock."

"Of your sky, yes. What business does a metal-worker professor have with the mortal realms?"

"None. It was a gift." She hissed, "Would be such a waste not to read it."

"You seem to receive quite a few gifts. Tell me, was the pearl necklace on you vanity also a gift or did you collect that yourself?" Mary's eyes widened, before she narrowed them.

"Sherlock," John interjected, glaring at him. "I think we have more important business than my _wife's_ jewelry, yeah?" Sherlock tore his gaze away from Mary, her expression daring him to continue.

"We have to see Mycroft." He announced, gliding out of the room, intent.

* * *

"You do know that pearls are found solely in the mortal realms?" Sherlock had tried once they were in the carriage.

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock." He had answered sternly, and that was the end of that.

* * *

Sherlock rapped on the door with a fervor known only to the dying so close to their cure. He was practically vibrating with excitement, rocking back and forth, wings tucked in yet taut and rustling. Moriarty said they were getting closer, taunting them with a trail of mismatched clues that only Sherlock seemed to understand. What would their confrontation would be like, if it came to that? What was this man who seemed to have fingers in every expanse of the realmsverse, who had access to things beyond John's imagination?

There was yell from within, mostly likely to tell Sherlock to knock it off. In response, he knocked again, harder and more insistent. "Hurry up!" There was a rustling and stomping before the door flew open, to reveal a rather disgruntled Lestrade, glaring at Sherlock.

"Can I have five seconds without you calling after me?" He snapped.

"There is a chain of murders going on and a possible crime lord running loose. I think time with my brother can be put on hold. Where is he, anyways?"

"Study." Lestrade growled, rolling his eyes as Sherlock pushed past, before he seemed to finally noticed John, who stood frankly stunned. "Hello."

"You and… Mycroft?" Lestrade nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Right. I'll just, um… Can I come in?" Mycroft's home was more or less how John would've pictured had he spared it any thought: decorated richly, clearly expensive, and hardly used. It was well cleaned, well kept, and John had to wonder briefly if both of Mycroft's residences were the same in each realm.

"-can't, Sherlock." Mycroft sat at his desk, giving his brother a scolding expression, his usually impeccable wings ruffled. He didn't notice John and Lestrade enter, and John decided not to think to hard as to why he and Lestrade had the same rumpled appearance.

"This is not a question of your career. The murderer is going to be in the embassy tonight. I need in there."

"Sherlock, I don't need you going through any documents better left tucked away."

"Not in my interest right now."

"I wouldn't put it past you, but I will allow you into the embassy. You'll just break in if I don't, and I don't need a robbery under my nose along with everything else." He opened a drawer, pulling out set of keys. "I expect these back the moment you are done with your rampaging through me place of business." He stood, passing Sherlock and handing the keys to John. "Now, if you would please leave. You did interrupt a rather important meeting."

The Exemian embassy was naturally quiet, rarely raising above a mild murmur, it's usual workers either out or working hard at manipulation and coercion. It was an elegant building, not fitting with the uniform houses and government locations around it, even more so on the inside, filled with exotic plants and decorations made to make the officials more at home. Foreign animals snoozed in cages as they passed in the winding generous hallways, a few of the critters peering at John curiously with intelligent gazes and exhausted thumping tails.

"What are we looking for?" John asked, revolver held firmly in his grasp.

"One office is open during the night. Over here." Sherlock directed them into a sparse room, with merely a desk and a few potted trees. "The usual ambassador has been vacated, we just need to-" There was a clang, and out from the deep shadows of the corner of the room, a figure materialized.

They watched as it clambered closer, a soft squeaking and whirring coming from the person's body. Something was off about the being, its jerky movements inhuman as it straightened its back. Dressed in a thick robe, head covered in a shawl, it scanned the room, eyes eerily bright as its neck rotated like a gear, each degree followed by a loud click. A tang of iron hit his sense as the thing locked onto their position, it's whirring growing louder and louder, and John only had seconds to shove Sherlock to the side as it came barreling towards them.

It was like wrestling with a wall, the person having clamped onto his good wrist and unwilling to let go. He struck at it with his free hand, going for the neck, yet withdrew his hand, the wrist sprained, knuckles stinging, and his arm screaming in pain as if on fire. It twisted him without any effort, pressing him to its chest with a steel arm clamping them together. He struggled, thrashing hard against the weight across his chest. Planting both feet upon the floor, he tried to throw their balance off, but it stood firm, a mountain compared to his efforts.

"Do something Sherlock!" He yelled at the frozen man.

"John, stop moving." Was his answer, hissed, Sherlock's eyes frantic. He was staring, transfixed, at John's abdomen, before flicking back up to his face. John looked down, having to force himself from crying out. Unfolded from the sides of the man were two extra arms, gleaming wickedly, each fixed with three jagged meat hooks, stained with the blood of its other victims.

"Oh gods," he wheezed, breath leaving his lungs as the arms rested upon his gut, the points of the hooks already slicing through his clothes.

"Let him go." Sherlock told it, hand outstretched in surrender and wings puffed and raised in defense. Behind John, he heard the whirring crescendo, thundering in his ears as a horrific squeal sounded, the thing's jaw dropping.

"Designation 32. Cleansing imminent." Its voice was emotionless, soulless. A mechanical mockery of what a real human spoke as, its cold tone sending John into a panic as he tried to calm himself. He might die here, gutted like an animal.

"He is not your target!" Sherlock yelled, stepping forward, freezing again when the thing pressed its claws more into John's stomach. He could feel the blood beginning to ease out of skin as the points dug into his flesh.

"Target unspecified. Cleansing imminent."

Time stopped, Sherlock caught between wanting to pull him out of the monster's grip and watching the thing gut him either way, while John was barely breathing, sucking in his stomach as close as possible. He felt like a rodent caught in the serpentine grip, every movement bringing a painful death closer and closer, his heart stuttering and body beginning to wrack with shivers. A cold crept into him, terror and serene acceptance of his fate mixing in his veins as he closed his eyes, waiting for the first gouging to begin.

But it never came. Instead, he felt cold. Insanely cold, as though he had found himself attached to a block of snow. He opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the person's arms had become encased in pure ice, frozen in place. Even the whirring had stopped behind him, leaving only the whisper of frozen water creaking. Mycroft stepped out into John's view, face sent in a grim line as he jerked his hand in a violent motion, the arms keeping him in place flew open.

A hand pulled him forcibly from the now from metal man, his clothes stiff and chilling against his back. He was trembling, gasping as the heat of the room met with the cold of his body. Sherlock watched from across the room, guilt written on his face, as Mycroft attempted to pull up John's shirt.

"Let me, John." He did, too cold and shocked to put up a fight, and Mycroft placed a hand to where the hooks had dug into his skin. Warm began to flood him and an itching began on his abdomen, continuing even as Mycroft pulled back, palm glowing softly with a violet light. John glanced down, seeing to same radiance waning on his skin, the cuts having stitched together, leaving his stomach much the same as it was before.

"Unfortunately, my talent only extends to the most minor of injuries." Mycroft informed him, as though reading John's train of thoughts. He moved away, going to his silent brother, holding out his hand expectantly, in which Sherlock placed the embassy keys. They stared at one another, neither breaking their gaze, having their own silent conversation. "John, do try not to itch your stomach too much. We wouldn't want another injury for, now would we?"

John pulled his hand away, surprised that he had been absentmindedly scratching at the sore skin. Mycroft gave him a warning smile before turning back to his brother. "Still cleaning up your messes, aren't I?"

"If it were just mine, you wouldn't be here." Sherlock hissed, sweeping out of the room in a hurry, leaving John and the stunned Mycroft alone.

"Thank you." John murmured following the other out of the embassy, the dark halls oppressive despite their gratuitous width and grandeur.

He found Sherlock standing outside upon the sidewalk, staring out into the sky, appearing as if he might take off into the night at any second. John looked up as well, straining to see the few scant stars that winked weakly in the light of the city. He had, on some nightly walks, missed the mystic quality of the unpolluted space in the Southern Lands, seeing the universe laid out over his head as he had rested quietly on the ground. Few had shared his sentiment. Metal-workers do not look up, unless they are absolutely made to.

"You shouldn't accompany me anymore. I misjudged this game for far too long and you would be safer with Mary." There was a strain to his words.

"I stay safe and you go headlong into whatever danger Moriarty cooks up for you next. Right, no. You can't get rid of me that easily, Sherlock." He told him. "Besides, bit boring staying home while you're out having all of the fun." He added with a smile, and Sherlock gave him one in return, and soon they were giggling into the night, high off adrenaline and barely making it through the night. He was still chilled, his stomach itching, and his arm burned, but he knew he couldn't sit while Sherlock ran amok in Guier.

"Are you okay?" John asked him seriously as the chuckles subsided. Sherlock took in a breath, nodding.

"Yes, I believe so." He was lying, despite his well-trained expression, and flawless delivery. John had seen the same act before, down in the South, in some of the older soldiers before battles. They also were calm, accepting, having given up the hope on making it home. They knew they would die, and fought hard, like animals, and went down as beasts as well. Sherlock thought he was going die in this battle, and John would make sure that would not happen, even if he had to give up his own life to ensure it.

"No notes this time. What's Moriarty's game?"

"He's showing off, showing us where he has his fingers in. Exemia, the mortal worlds, Duoich, Fel, here, obviously. There's something more though. Something else. Haven't quite figured it out yet, but he hasn't given us all of the data yet, now has he?"

"So what do we do in the mean time?"

"Not much we can do until we are called upon again." There was a moment of silence. "I suspect you'll go back to Mary."

"Yeah, unless you had a different option."

"Considering the circumstances it might be," He eyed John, a curious look in his eyes. "For the best."

"Well, I did nearly just die, and it isn't exactly easy to get to Baker St. in a hurry."

"You want to stay there tonight?"

"I already told Mary I probably wasn't going to be home tonight." He said with a shrug, smiling internally at Sherlock's own surprised expression. Together, they set off toward Baker Street, the walk taking nearly an hour, but peaceful nonetheless. Mrs. Hudson greeted them with a late meal, embracing John with more warmth than both of the suns.

"Look at you. He's got you running all around the city again. It's not decent." She cooed, hands on his shoulders and beaming as if no time had passed at all. "Poor Mary must be worried sick."

"Well," He started, interrupted when there was a slam of a door, Sherlock having left for his room. Mrs. Hudson frowned, sighing.

"He's been like that ever since he came back. Stomping around at all hours when he gets in, hardly speaking. A right terror." John stared at the hall where Sherlock had disappeared, mouth thinning, but he let the disappointment fade. Sherlock was doing what was right, and John was being foolish. He looked back to Mrs. Hudson with a smile and they ate the meal together before each retired for the night.

* * *

The park, grey in the morning light with the suns having barely made their ascent, was cool and welcoming despite the circumstances. An envoy of Lestrade's had come for them in the morning, claiming to have found a strange corpse in the park. Sherlock and John had rushed out in a hurry, eager for their next lead. Now, they trudged past the pathways of Acheler Park, onto the blanket of green grass, dewy with the early fog, and under the sparse trees, already turning colors in wake of the changing of seasons. This would be the only greenery that most of the inhabitants of Guier would ever see, so home bound, and instilled with centuries of fear what may be hiding in the dense foliage of the wooded areas outside of their precious cities and towns.

Guier was one of the few cities without its own mining system, relying heavily on imports from outside the peninsula and the realm. Even still, the citizens sought out the underground and claustrophobic spaces instead of the open air. It was no wonder the factories never changed, their smog-filled close quarters, and low-light as close to the spiraling, maze-like mines that they craved. John had never shared this with his fellow citizens.

"Just over here." Said the young bluecoat, leading them along deeper into the gardens, where small song birds would normally be screaming out their disapproval of each other, yet there was only silence. "Lestrade is already with the…the thing."

"What is it exactly?" Sherlock asked, annoyed.

"I can't quite say, sir." He answered, paling at the thought of whatever it was they were here to see. The bluecoat stopped, pointing out Lestrade, who stood vigil of the scene near a rather unhealthy bush of violet dregdenas(2). "There, sirs."

Sherlock pushed past in a hurry, leaving John to apologize awkwardly before hurrying to catch up with the other's excitable stride. Lestrade stood some paces back, arms crossed over his chest as he eyed the corpse and Sherlock with distrust. John could see why.

"What is it?" Lestrade inquired in a hoarse voice.

"I believe," Sherlock started, breathlessly. He let a finger run along the crude dull brown fur of its long neck, an oval-shaped head attached to it with curved horns covering its eyes and gleaming sharp little teeth showing from its ever-present smile. John had seen illustrations of the thing, of the Ungarian war monster, fearing every second during his time in the militia that one would appear in the dense forests to ravage the metal-worker army. "It's a yagg."

* * *

1-Duoich is split between two ever warring humanoids, the Ungar and the Mercan. Mercan are more technologically inclined and are at peace with the other realms. Ungar are magic inclined and seek to expand their territory, which is why they were invading Trias, a.k.a. why John was in the military in the first place. (I don't remember if I ever explicitly stated some of this)

2- Dregdenas are a like roses in that they are mainly used for decor and given as a token of intimate passions. They come in three main colors, purple being mainly for aesthetic purposes, yellow for courtship, and white for engagement or love.

'What's a yagg, writer-type person?' Well reader, you'll find out next time. Hopefully next Friday because I'm a lot more excited to write the next few chapters than I was writing this one! Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed. Sorry again for the lateness.

**EDIT**- Made some minor edits that I forgot to add in before I rushed off to work. Sorry.


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Bam! Look at that. On time(ish). It's like a new record or something. Anyways, hope you enjoy! Thank you for the reviews!

* * *

**Chapter 8: Belly of the Beast**

"Not possible." They had moved, from the park to Lestrade's office, the bluecoat reiterating exactly what was going through most everyone's mind. Sherlock rolled his eyes for the eighth time, itching to go and explore the corpse. It wasn't often he could would get the chance to dissect a yagg of all things, but his brother's irritatingly necessary lover had insisted they discuss their next steps. "You can't get a yagg into Trias. We've had the blasted Ungar trying for over a decade."

"It was there. You saw it. Its sitting in your mortuary as we speak. Obviously, one got in here. The question is not what, but how?" Sherlock all but shouted. He needed down there as of five minutes ago. Moriarty may be holding out, but something fantastically new was rotting away uselessly just under his feet.

Lestrade regarded him with a leveled expression, the bastard, clearly still miffed at John and him interrupting Mycroft and his meeting the night before. Typical.

"Fine. How did it get in here?"

"I need to look at it first, Lestrade." He sneered, but the other man seemed unimpressed. "Oh fine. It's young, too young to be on its own. Yaggs cannot leave their mother until sexual maturity, which this one clearly was not at. Parents hold their kin by the scruff of the neck, causing a very distinct group of callouses to develop. Our particular animal lacked these, meaning it had no parent, which means it should have been dead months ago. Clearly, it died last night while John and I were wrestling with an automation. No parent and yet still surviving this long? A product of scientific interference. The yagg was born in Trias, though how, I can't say. That is all I can give you before dissecting it further, now if you would kindly allow me to do so, it would be much appreciated unless you would like me to loudly announce exactly where you were last night!"

Lestrade seemed more amused than scandalized by his empty threat, but, nonetheless, gave them access to the corpse. "I expect a full report on this, and the last two cases you solved. You may be the target, but it's still my damned city, Sherlock." Lestrade demanded as he left Sherlock and John in the mortuary, the Exemian waving him off, much more interested in the thing before him.

It was like nothing he had ever seen. Four longs legs, each attached with a dexterous foot equipped with hook-like nails used for scaling cliffs, a lean muscular body, a thick tail ending with a metallic clubs and the dreaded oval head with the long curved horns and severe under-bite giving it the impression of the ever grinning hunter. The nightmare Mercan parents tell their children at night was lying dead before him, ready to be dissected and cataloged in his own terms, not in the definitions of the few texts he'd read over them. Sherlock was practically vibrating at the prospects.

He was halfway through the throat, having already observed the intricate system which caused the famed 'venom fire'(1) that made it such a deadly thing to encounter on the battlefield, before John spoke up. He had been watching intently, as curious as Sherlock, perking up when Sherlock mentioned something truly astonishing.

"How do the Mercan even fight back?"

"There's a very narrow window of opportunity when the yagg opens its mouth to set fire to the area." He re-opened the locked jaws, pointing out the very soft tissue at the back of its throat, usually guarded by the yagg's teeth. "The bones are hard, one of the hardest substances known to intelligent life, but when it emits fire, the jaw opens wide enough to provide a clear shot to the soft palate, which is a near direct line to the back of the skull. A well trained marksman can impede or even kill the thing."

John sat back, nodding, and allowing Sherlock to continue. He moved on, to the heart and the lungs, the stomach, and the powerful legs right down to the curved claws. He could spend hours peeling them away, discovering what lay within the supposedly flame-retardant, unbreakable nails that the thing sported, yet something else held Sherlock's attention. The front ten especially were caked in gritty mud, their shallow curved packed tight with rock. Immediately, Sherlock took samples of these, the question of where it had come from coming to light.

"John, where might there be a large abandoned facility along the coast, possibly affixed to a cliff-side?" He asked.

"There's a part of the city farther north that became a ghost section due to a fire. Everyone evacuated, and by the time it was habitable again, Nazzers had taken over. Might be a factory or something up there." Was the shrugged answer, just as Sherlock identified three of the sediments in the yagg's claws. They would have to pay a visit.

* * *

The bluecoat carriage rolled them along the pockmarked road, crack and nigh impassable from the years of abandonment. Lestrade had been more than happy to provide them with transport to the 'ghost district', so long as he and half of his team could accompany them. Sherlock hadn't wanted a crowd, but he would have to make due to ditch the observers so he and John could investigate on their own.

John sat steady next to him, staring at the floor, the ceiling, Lestrade, anywhere but Sherlock. He had stopped by his home before they set off, telling Mary of his departure, ever the dutiful husband. When he had emerged, John had been troubled. He had kissed his wife, as always, but the usual bright and dreamy glaze to his expression was replaced by a more puzzled furrow. What had she said to him, to trouble him so? What had been murmured into his ear as he embraced Mary before leaving to 'run amok' with Sherlock?

He couldn't tell himself what the words may have been, only that it troubled John enough to keep him broodingly confused next to him. Mary was her own enigma, heavily influenced by other cultures, which was not something heard of for metal-workers. The Southern Lands were merely colonies, nothing like the North, or so Sherlock had heard. Connections to any mortal realms were minimal at best, most citizens in Guier knowing nothing of the fodder worlds. Mary knew someone, had dealings with someone of considerable power, unless she was one herself, though if that were the case then why settle down in a mundane boring place such as the metal-worker capital?

"No, that's not what I put at all!" Sherlock shifted his attention to man sitting across from them. Lestrade was fiddling with his wrist messenger, angrily punching buttons as a slip of paper printed itself out. "Code 1.397?"

"What is that?" John asked out of his own curiosity.

"Between a group of missing children and a fire hazard." Sherlock answered before Lestrade could wave away the question. "You shouldn't keep your code book lying around your office, Lestrade." He snipped when the bluecoat glared at him, pulling the small book from his coat and throwing it to Lestrade. John snorted next to him, and Sherlock felt his hear flutter at the smile on the other's face. He had been good last night, kept himself from John while all he had actually wanted was to pull him into the other room with him and ravish him until he forgot about his wife and his city. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to sway John into his arms. They were reaching a breaking point, he could see it, and he knew neither were going to be quite satisfied with the outcome.

* * *

_"Be safe."_

_"I will." She had kissed him, a sweet peaceful thing that had his heart swelling with the untold emotion behind it._

_"Come back to me. I want to take you away when this is all done." He stepped back, frowning.  
_

_"What do you-"_

_"John! Hurry up!" Sherlock called and she had pushed him out with a sad smile. He wanted to stay, ask what she meant but...  
_

Mary had secrets before they ever decided to get knotted, had told him that she would likely never divulge him into her own mysteries. John had agreed, too worried about his own and too besotted to delve deeper, though with Sherlock's current insistence to, maybe he should have. It shouldn't matter to him; Mary was his wife and that's all he needed. She loved him, would be the mother of his child soon for gods' sake. So what if what she had told them was a ruse?

There was that small, niggling feeling, like a finger rubbing profusely at the back of his skull, that wanted her to something awful. Something that he could move away from and bury the regret and loss of what they had, into the desire, the need to shift his attention to Sherlock. He wanted it over with, for one of them the leave so he could stop fighting with himself over the other, because, to be honest, he couldn't divide his attention fairly for Mary, when Sherlock would ask everything of him.

Clouds had begun to cover the sky once again as they left the official's carriage, the downcast depressive tone setting itself among the long since ruined buildings. John never knew what this portion of the city had been for, only that the fire that had broken out had claimed hundreds of lives and left a scarred and ashen shell of a whole district. Vines and sprouts had begun to overtake the streets, the brick walls cracking and some still black from the warping flames. Before them, brooding and giant, was the factory, matching the rest of its nesting ground.

"Not a Nazzer in sight." Lestrade noted as they approached. "What's frightened them off?" It was curious. They had been the reason the area had stayed desolate. John wondered aloud if they had lost interest in the ruins, but Sherlock pointed out the signs of life, the fresh gouges of sharpen claws on the walls, footprints with in the dirt, a prey carcass not two days old.

Once they had made it to the large imposing metal doors, there was a small discrepancy of who should be the ones to go in. Lestrade reasoned that the bluecoats had more man/firepower, while Sherlock argued that they would be loud and disruptive, ruining possible evidence. The dispute was settled when Sherlock slipped in while Lestrade was making a point, John following quickly into the dark, unlit factory while the bluecoat yelled at them to get back out into the open.

The doors slammed shut behind them of their own accord, the noise reverberating horrendously in the room. John immediately tried to pull them back open, meeting with an unparalleled resistance as he pulled fruitlessly on the handles. Above him, burning into the metal, were the familiar runes, red and wrathful as they glowed vibrantly in the dim atmosphere.

"Damn it!" He yelled, pounding a fist on the door, though it did little other than hurt his hand. He could hear shuffling and banging on the other side, the doors shuddering yet staying resolutely closed.

"Sherlock! John! Are you okay?" Lestrade called out, sounding desperate.

"Yeah, we're fine." He shouted back, looking to Sherlock who nodded in agreement. He took a stepped forward, hand glowing pale yellow and it along where the doors had closed, withdrawing his hand when the enchantment burned him.

"There's no getting out this way." Sherlock muttered, and Lestrade yelled for clarification on the other side. "We're going to find another way out!" He shouted to the bluecoat, who agreed to stick around and try and find their own way in. By the light of the enchantment, Sherlock found a lantern set intentionally on a stool beside them, sparking it into life with his own power. The darkness was eaten by the white brilliance, though the joy at finally being able to see beyond his own hand was lost once John took in the room.

Corpses. A dozen of them, six on each side, each hanging by their wrists from the ceiling behind glass walls, eyes open and watching out into the foyer. Their necks had been slit, each head lolling disturbingly to the side as they swayed in some unseen breeze, naked as the day they were born. John jumped back when he looked down, seeing more glass and even more bodies beneath their feet, laying on their backs side by side. Sherlock stooped, pressing his fingers to the transparent flooring.

"They're being cooled. Kept fresh. Do you hear that?" John stopped to listen, having mistaken the loud ringing for his own internal shock. "It's mechanical. Their being kept from rotting for something… Interesting." John had enough in him to roll his eyes at that, feeling delighted when he spotted another set of doors.

"I know you'd love to sit here, and figure out the mechanics to the cooler, but we should press on, yeah?" Sherlock nodded, standing back up, and they made for the exit.

"Moriarty has trapped us in here for a reason, John. There must be somethi- oh." He stopped mid-sentence as they entered the new area. Instead of the factory floor as it should have been, the space had been converted into a large laboratory. Shelves laden with vials of colorful liquid and jars with carefully kept specimens were mixed with benches covered in beakers and fragile instruments, half of which John could not identify. A few cages filled with tiny critters were dotted here and there as they quietly made their way down the straight path, Sherlock pausing every few feet to observe the contents and mutter observations to himself.

"Ungarian." He said finally out loud, scanning over a notebook.

"What?"

"This whole facility is under Ungar control."

"Ungar are magic, though." John thought aloud, remembering the precise moment he had been shot in the shoulder by one of their spells. "What would they be doing in a laboratory?"

"I have seven possibilities, but we'll need to see more to be sure." With that, they were off again, the floor declining and the vials and shelves receding. Experiment tables began to appear, their white surfaces stained and ugly and a rank smell began to rise from their direction. The lantern soon became unnecessary as a dull sickly orange light illuminated itself along their path.

John's chest began to tighten and his shoulder started to ache while they continued, the tables and sharp torturous instruments began to press in on him, a claustrophobic sense windings itself around him while the lights at their feet pressed closer and closer. He felt as though the air began to thin and the world fell away until it was just him and this singular road, paved in a sterile environment of machines and darkness.

Had he died? Had the enchantment stopped his heart, and this was the nightmare before he reached the twin guides? It seemed so, the black around him frightful as the knives and painful tools lining the air around him. He would soon find them, the honest and the liar, and he knew whom he would fall for, never being a religious man. He would find himself in eternal torment, his last memories of a meaningless pursuit of a mad man.

John must've cried out in his internal conflict, for wings, metallic and feathery, brushed against his shoulders. He glanced over to Sherlock who was watching him curiously, a hand sneaking down to grab his. The cool skin brought him back, his shoulder easing and his chest loosening again. He let out a breath, not realizing he had been holding it, and Sherlock nodded, leading them on once more. If he had died mysteriously in this tomb, Sherlock would surely be elsewhere, not striding calmly by his side.

They were coming to another area, this time filled with enormous glass tubes, twice the size of Sherlock, each filled with a viscous liquid. Some were dark and empty. Others had creatures, floating serenely in their golden contents, each, what seemed to be, at varying stages of developments. Sherlock knew the names of most of them, identifying creatures from all across the realms.

"A Nazzer." John identified himself, staring hatefully at the dreaded thing. It was almost relieving to see it sleeping, vulnerable to any attack among the liquid.

Of course, most of the tubes were dedicated to yaggs. Curled in fetal positions, the monstrous war animals were almost deceitfully peaceful, the youngest still haven't developed the thick horns or lashing clubbed tails. From what Sherlock muttered, most were mutated, missing limbs and horns, and even one without any teeth. None were perfect copies of the actual monster.

"This is what they were doing." Sherlock muttered darkly, glaring at one near correct yagg. "The Ungar have been losing the land war for some time. Moriarty gave them away to get there trump card onto the battlefield." The repercussions could be tremendous. The metal-workers would have no defense for them. The war would be lost. John stared at the beast, wonder in his gaze at how close these things were from Guier. It wouldn't take much to ruin their city.

They moved away shortly after, their search now much more grim. They had found the yaggs, but why were they still here? The answer was came to them along the far wall of the factory, where another enchantment had been inscribed upon another pair of doors. They stood closed, foreboding.

"Is somebody out there? Please, help us!" Came a timid lost voice from behind the metal, and John's jaw dropped when a chorus of agreeing murmurs followed.

"Sherlock, that's a kid. There are kids behind there!" John went to the doors, Sherlock right behind, just in time for a fire to erupt around them, pinning the two to the wall with its heat and high flames. The doors proved stuck, impassable. They were trapped.

* * *

1- The fire produced by a yagg is not of itself toxic, but the smoke is. It paralyzes the body allowing for the creature to feast in relative peace, along with softening the tissues for consumption.

Thanks for reading! See you in possibly two weeks!


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